The Night of the Odious Obligation
by SilverShadow44
Summary: James West and Artemus Gordon are given the assignment they want least of all - and their intended rescuee isn't too happy about it either!
1. Little Things Mean a Lot

**The Night of the Odious Obligation**

 **Los Angeles**

"Let me get this straight," Jim West said, placing both hands palm down on the conference table. "You want us to _rescue_ Dr. Miguelito Loveless?" He glanced over at his Secret Service partner, who was having the same incredulous reaction.

"They don't _look_ drunk," Artemus Gordon murmured, "or appear to be under any form of mind control. Could be hypnosis, of course. I've checked the calendar and it's definitely not April 1st."

"You still have Torres' hypno-lamp?" Jim asked.

"Sure. We could give it a whirl."

"Gentlemen," Colonel Richmond frowned, "I don't like the situation any more than you do-"

"I doubt that," Jim muttered.

"-but we really don't have any choice. I realize he isn't your favorite person . . . ."

Jim was suddenly grateful that he and Arte hadn't been given anything to drink. Their spit-takes would've out-geysered Old Faithful.

". . . . and you've got very good justification for not wanting to rescue him."

"You must be referring to the way the little monster tries to destroy us every chance he gets," Arte helpfully supplied.

"And has nearly succeeded," Jim added.

"The fact remains," Secretary Bristow said, with a worried glance at both agents, "we need Dr. Loveless' help and he evidently needs yours. I was told that you two are the best there is at dealing with unorthodox situations like this."

Jim traced a circle on the tabletop with one finger, raised his eyebrows and gave the Secretary his best sardonic stare.

"Unorthodox situations being the new code-speak for walking into a trap set by Loveless himself," Jim drawled. "You must be-"

"No, Jim!" Colonel Richmond interrupted. "I know that's what this must look like to you, but believe me, I wouldn't be asking either of you if I thought that was the case!"

"Asking?" Arte raised his eyebrows too. "Not ordering?"

Richmond shook his head.

"I can't – I _won't_ – do that, given your history with 'the little monster' as you put it." The Colonel lowered his head, barely daring to meet their eyes, and chuckled bitterly. "If I tried begging, would begging help? Because I will."

Richmond's hands were trembling now where they were steepled beneath his chin. Jim and Arte looked at each other and sat up a bit straighter.

"It's that serious then?" Arte asked.

"I've never been more serious in my life," Richmond nodded. "But I also know what I'm asking, and it isn't for my two best agents to commit suicide. I need you to undertake this mission willingly, with all your skills brought to bear. I need both of you – and that malevolent wizard – to get back here alive without any inconvenient 'accidents' along the way, hard as that may be."

"Dr. Loveless is our only hope," Secretary Bristow said.

"Of what?" Jim had a hard time imagining Loveless being the 'hope' of anyone other than megalomaniacal, despotic scientists who wanted to believe there was another scientist out there even nuttier than they were.

"Dr. Loveless is the world's foremost authority on Patchinson's Ague," Colonel Richmond said. "And we need a cure for Patchinson's."

"I assume you're about to tell us that's a disease that's spreading somewhere, though I've never heard of it." Jim had crossed his arms and there was still a sardonic edge to his voice, but Arte's brow furrowed.

" _I've_ heard of it," he told Jim. "You probably haven't because it isn't all that common or widespread. But I take it we've had an outbreak?"

Colonel Richmond and Secretary Bristow both nodded, their own faces grave.

"I've never heard of a cure for it though," Arte continued. "You think Dr. Loveless has found one?"

"We don't know," Richmond admitted. "But he's the only one we can find for whom it is even a possibility. We know he was studying the disease from notes found in his original California hideout. We also know that some of those moldy bread cultures he had there produced some pretty amazing medicinal results and properties. Unfortunately an effect on the Ague wasn't one of them. If anyone could produce a cure quickly though . . . ."

"It's a homicidal little maniac who probably would never agree to do it out of the goodness of his tender, sentimental heart." Jim sighed. "Colonel, has it ever occurred to you that even if Arte and I _can_ rescue Loveless, we may be the very last people on Earth he would ever do any favors for even if we did save his life?"

"I'm willing to beg," Richmond told them, "and I'm willing to grasp at straws too."

"This is grasping over quite a distance," Arte said, examining the map and papers they'd been given. "You're asking us to go into Mexico. Grant approved this?"

Colonel Richmond and Secretary Bristow glanced at one another nervously before Colonel Richmond replied.

"Strictly speaking, no. The Secretary of State has approved it."

"It isn't the Secretary of State's job," Jim pointed out, with more than a hint of displeasure.

"Under normal circumstances, no. These are not normal circumstances." Richmond's hands were shaking again and his voice had a hoarse quality. "The Patchinson's outbreak has occurred in San Francisco, where the President had a speaking engagement, as I'm sure you know."

Both Secret Service agents nodded. They'd been planning to meet up with Grant in a few days themselves.

"The President of the United States has the Ague."

Arte's face went as pale as Richmond's at this startling pronouncement. He and Grant had always been close. Jim was troubled also, but keeping his composure.

"It still isn't Secretary Fish's job," he said quietly. "What about the Vice President? What does he have to say about this?"

"Nothing," Richmond admitted. "We were informed by telegraph yesterday that Vice President Wilson has suffered a stroke. It's serious. And gentlemen, before you ask, yes, we did attempt to contact the Speaker of the House as well. He's gone on a hunting and fishing trip with some old friends and we still haven't been able to reach him." The Colonel shoved his chair back from the table, appearing every inch a broken man. "So now you know. The country is teetering on the brink of a Constitutional crisis and our only hope may be a brilliant, murderous madman who we believe is being held in a dungeon in Mexico." He looked up and this time dared to meet Jim and Arte's gaze with his own tired eyes. "Your decision please, gentlemen? We haven't got much time."

"I can't let down the President at a time like this," Arte answered quickly. "I'm in."

"I am too," Jim frowned, all too aware that he might be making the biggest – and last – mistake of his life.


	2. Get Closer

"Bueno apetito, Senor," the sinister-looking bandito said, placing a tray of tortillas stuffed with meat, cheese and vegetables next to his partner. Arte had wasted no time getting into character and costume as The Wanderer sped south. Jim picked up one of the tortillas and began eating, though he didn't have an 'apetito' of any kind at the moment. It was, like all of Arte's culinary creations, delicious. But Jim was still troubled by the larger legal, or rather illegal, implications of what they were doing.

"You realize that what we're doing could technically be considered an act of treason if the government of Mexico chooses to make trouble over this," he said. "That we could lose more than just our jobs? Possibly be sent to prison, and deservedly?" President Grant would want to pardon them, especially if they saved his life by their actions, but he might not have the leeway to do so in order to avoid war with Mexico.

"That's what I like about you, James," Arte exclaimed. "Always the optimist! You're already assuming we're going to live through this!" Arte sat down, gun belt and bullet belts clanking, and grabbed a tortilla for himself. "I confess, invading a neighboring foreign country to rescue a man who wants to kill us from a large and dangerous group of men who will also want to kill us wasn't in my game plan when I woke up this morning. But what choice do we have?"

Jim saw how slowly Arte bit into the tortilla, with as little appetite as he had. Jim bet that underneath his skin-darkening makeup and mustache, his partner was still pale with worry for his friend Grant. The task that lay ahead of them could not be more daunting. According to the brief Colonel Richmond had given them, Loveless was being held prisoner by a Mexican bandit chief who claimed to be a rival heir to the same Southern California territory that Loveless' maternal ancestors had once owned. Dr. Loveless had traveled to Mexico expecting to find an ally in his quixotic quest to seize the state back from the U.S. and had found a hostile competitor instead. Richmond's information came from one of the Secretary of State's most reliable informants, but how could they be sure it was up to date?

"You know as well as I do, Loveless may have already escaped by the time we get there." Jim finished his tortilla but couldn't bring himself to grab another. "How do we find him with an entire country for him to be hiding in?"

"Ah! It just so happens I've already thought of a plan for that!" Arte pulled a business card out of his sleeve and placed it on the table. "Mexico's finest piñata producer! Enrique gave me the reference last year. I thought we could have them make up a bunch of piñatas that resemble the two of us – Loveless won't be able to resist!" Arte saw the look on Jim's face and quickly sobered up again. "But seriously, that's an address for one of Enrique's good friends, in case we need one. I guess we just have to hope that Loveless _is_ still a prisoner in a nearly impenetrable fortress. But who would ever have thought _we_ 'd be the ones springing him?"

"Hopefully not Hector el Tigre," Jim answered, flipping through more of Colonel Richmond's dossier. Loveless' cousin didn't sound like any charming picnic to deal with either, and unlike Loveless, he was a wholly unknown and unfamiliar opponent. Was he also the one person capable of doing what the U.S. federal penitentiary system could not?

The sole saving grace to their mission, as Jim saw it, was that Loveless might be a scientific genius, but he never ceased being careless. The little wizard's towering ego and unshakeable faith in his own schemes invariably led to his undoing. Whether it was a glaring error like trying to replace right-handed Jim West with left-handed Janus – who had been coached all about Jim's early life, but knew nothing of Artemus (or Great Aunt Maude) – or simply failing to take away Arte's lock-pick while holding him captive, Loveless could always be counted on to make some critical mistake. Perhaps Hector el Tigre had found that to be the case also, and perhaps it was true of el Tigre himself. If Jim and Arte were really lucky, then Miguelito's negligence was a family trait and the two agents might have a chance at success after all. If only the President could hold out that long . . . .

If not, the entire United States would be in serious trouble.


	3. Tequila and the Tramp

Most tigers in the Americas lived in zoos, and Hector the Tiger was no exception. Zoo was the best term to describe the dissolute den of bandits, mercenaries, drunks, women of negotiable virtue and other lowlifes that surrounded el Tigre's alleged fortress. It didn't look like the sort of place that could hold a genius like Dr. Loveless prisoner for very long. But Hector's hideout was like a candy bon bon in reverse – soft on the outside and hard in the center.

By mutual agreement, Arte would go in first to get the lay of the land while Jim remained behind – also a reverse of sorts. Arte was by far the better actor and disguise artist, and could hide the gadgets and do the groundwork for his partner. It would have to be a hard, fast snatch and grab – emphasis on fast. Loveless' obsessive hatred of James West meant that he could hardly be expected to be the most cooperative rescuee once he saw Jim's face. With any luck, the malevolent midget would remain as blind as ever to Artemus Gordon's talents.

While Arte worked on that, Jim – far from being idle – had already decided to make contact with Enrique's friend on the outside and learn as much about Hector el Tigre as possible beyond what the very thin dossier that Colonel Richmond had been able to provide. The covert meeting had already been arranged by telegraph. The two Secret Service agents would need all the allies they could find. It was clear that el Tigre, rather than the government of Mexico, ruled this territory and was keeping it firmly in the grip of his claws. If el Tigre really _was_ able to capture Loveless, and moreover keep him captive, he had to be considered a formidable threat, at least as formidable as the not-so-good doctor himself. And as for Jim – well, he was a no-good bum.

Being a slob didn't come naturally to James West – it was something that required Arte's considerable help. Jim had learned to be passably rude and obnoxious where circumstances required, devious, dishonest and criminal as well. Arte had given him all the acting lessons he could during their partnership, just as he had taught Arte more than a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat. But no one – _no one_ – must recognize West before they had achieved their target objective and were already safely on their way back to the United States. That meant that as soon as the two agents had finished their simple meal on board the Wanderer, Arte had gotten out the makeup kit and costumes again and gone to work on his partner. Jim was glad Arte had let him finish eating first, because now he didn't just look like a homeless lowlife, he _smelled_ like one too. _Reeked_. So did the greasy rags he was dressed in. Even he couldn't recognize himself in his own reflection, unkempt, dirt-caked and filthy as he was. Whether anyone else could or not, he, James West, wouldn't want to associate with himself in this guise. Now he could make his way to the back of the piñata factory where he'd meet with Enrique Leon's trustworthy friend without the slightest possibility of anyone identifying him. If only he didn't make his own skin crawl – and Arte had gotten a great deal of amusement out of disguising Jim this time, more than usual.

Jim had no trouble at all finding his way to his new contact's location. In fact, he met with so little obstacle, he was actually a bit early. He'd done his best to get into character, snarling, cursing, muttering under his breath and occasionally sticking out a gritty, muddy hand to beg for coins. Almost every person he'd seen on the street had given him a wide berth, sometimes pinching their noses first. Now he had but to wait in the alleyway for Enrique's friend Ruiseñor, and hope that Ruiseñor showed soon and also that no dogs came along mistaking Jim for something to roll in.

As he stood in the shadows at the appointed time, Jim inhaled sharply (something he'd been desperately trying not to do) when a gorgeous woman with coffee skin, long, wavy hair as black as midnight and perfect white teeth that outshone her jewelry tiptoed into the alleyway. He cursed his carelessness as the heavy whiff of himself made him start coughing, giving away his location. She spotted him immediately, and started to approach before drawing back and frowning sharply, clearly put off by his disgusting appearance and smell. That was all he needed – for a lovely, curvaceous vision in a tight blouse and long, printed skirt to show up here of all places just as he and Ruiseñor were about to make contact! Much as he wanted to admire and converse with this delectable damsel, he had to get rid of her and fast. Since he had blown his hiding spot by coughing, he decided to keep it up, hacking as if he were dying of some dreadful disease, spitting up the biggest gobbets of saliva he could for good measure. That should be enough to make any woman of practical sense flee and look at a different alleyway for a possible assignation than this one.

The tactic should have worked. It didn't. Instead of abandoning this patch of turf, the senorita angrily gestured for the bum to take himself off elsewhere. She even raised a fist with which to threaten him. But she also seemed to be looking around as if also expecting someone. Had she too been planning to meet with someone else in this location at this hour? She appeared to be on the verge of drawing a dagger from the sheath that she kept at her skirtwaist in order to drive him off when another explanation for her presence occurred to Jim – one which made him want to mutter curses again.

"Ruiseñor?" he called out softly.

Startled, she drew up straighter and shuddered, as if someone had just dropped an ice cube down the back of her blouse. Her hand did not move from the dagger's hilt, but her flashing dark eyes told Jim everything he needed to know. This was his contact all right.

"Ruiseñor?" he repeated. Because the name had 'señor' in it and just from standard practice, he had been expecting to meet with a man, not a woman, and yet no one would ever mistake this beautiful female as anything other than what she was. She had considerably more doubts about his identity, however.

"Señor West?" she asked at last, with a mixture of horror and disappointment on her face.

"Si," he nodded, wondering if he was blushing underneath his caked-on dirt. He didn't think he'd blushed in years, but the look she was giving him now made him want to. _Thanks, Arte! Thanks a lot . . . ._ "This is just a disguise I'm wearing," he whispered.

"If you really are Señor West . . . ." she whispered back, "it is . . . a very effective one." At least she had the grace not to pinch her nose shut in his presence. "But we cannot be seen here," she scolded, then gestured for him to follow her after she had made sure the direction she was leading him in was free of observers. "I have a place where we can speak in private, and where you can wash a bit, si?" Her tone implied he had damn well better be willing to wash himself if he expected to be allowed into her hideout for more than a few seconds.

"I'd appreciate that," he said with sincerity. "And call me Jim."

"Jim," she said, as if rolling his name around in her mouth to see how it tasted before responding. "You may call me Tequila. Tequila Ruiseñor."

They proceeded quickly and quietly to the rear entrance of a taberna that must have dispensed Tequila's namesake beverage during its open hours, but for some reason, even though it was early in the evening, the taberna was closed. Jim had noticed that was true of several other businesses they passed in the short walk. There was plenty of commercial activity going on around el Tigre's hive of scum and villainy, but other parts of the town clearly weren't prospering. Jim would have to ask her about that, but first he wanted to know the answer to one question that was burning in his mind.

"Tequila," he turned to her as she was pointing him the way to a washroom, "by any chance could our mutual friend Enrique Leon have given my partner a description of you before he arranged for our meeting?"

"I gave him my permission to do so, si," she answered. "Porque?"

"Oh, just wondering."


	4. Eye of the Tiger

"Señor, you are a cheat, a scoundrel!" the woman of easy virtue exclaimed as the last of Artemus Gordon's poker-playing opponents stormed off from the table with less money than they'd arrived with. She batted her lashes at him and poured him another cup of wine. "I like that in a man."

It hadn't been difficult for Arte's bandito persona to insert himself into the outskirts of Hector el Tigre's fortress community. It had been only marginally more difficult to remain in one piece while there. But most of the hoodlums he'd encountered today were no match for the wily Secret Service agent in wits, fisticuffs, gun-drawing or anything else. All of the adventures he and Jim had shared over the years had made him better than the average fighter or gambler that was to be found in this place. If those he'd met so far represented the best caliber of criminal Hector el Tigre could attract, it was difficult to believe the Tiger himself was any equal to Dr. Loveless.

Just as Arte was gathering up his special edged playing cards and wondering how he might attract the attention of a better grade of henchman, he heard a rumbling, rough voice behind him.

"Señor Gonzaleez," the speaker said, addressing Arte by the name he'd chosen for this particular disguise, "I hear you are causing some trouble in this town."

"Oh?" 'Gonzaleez' replied, deliberately keeping his back to the man, but tilting the wine cup to view the thug in the liquid's mirror surface. "I might do that if I could find some trouble worth causing, but this is quite a dull little town."

Arte felt (and saw) the hand coming down on his shoulder, and could have practically read the tough's next line of dialog from a bad playscript.

"Perhaps I can make it less dull for you, Señor."

With reflexes only slightly less quick than his partner's, Arte flung the wine directly into his opponent's face, ducked out of the loosened shoulder grip and simultaneously drove the chair he'd been sitting in into the man's legs and more sensitive parts. Before the thug could recover, Arte spun around and punched the man right in the nose, pressing the palm-side catch on a large ring he was wearing as he did so. A concentrated drop of the same special 'stench oil' Arte had employed in more diluted form when making Jim's raggedy costume shot straight up the thug's left nostril. Then all Arte had to do was stand back and wait for the impressive results. In less than two seconds, with one clenched fist still raised in the air, the unlucky goon gave a startled gasp of pure horror, his eyes crossed, and he fell to the ground in a faint.

"Timber!" Arte whispered with a satisfied grin, being careful as he closed the ring's compartment not to get any oily residue on himself. This particular bully boy he'd just brought down was smaller than Voltaire, but not by a lot. Now if _that_ didn't get the attention of someone in charge around here . . . .

The woman who'd poured Arte the wine was now gaping openly. Arte gave her a friendly shrug and reached to scratch the back of his neck. As he did so, his fingertips touched a small dart that was lodged there and he suddenly found himself frozen like a statue, unable to move. Another pair of hands brought a sack down over his head, plunging him into darkness.

Yes, he'd gotten someone's attention all right . . . .

Arte could feel himself being lifted, stiff as a board, and carried to an unfamiliar location, though he couldn't tell in what direction. The experience was disturbingly similar to an ordeal he'd suffered at the hands of a Chinese 'tong' gang that had wanted to use him as a hostage against Jim. He'd managed to talk his way out of the trap they'd put him in that time, one designed to plunge a knife through his chest at the stroke of midnight if his partner didn't succeed in following the gang's orders. The night had been no fun at all for either agent, and they'd both nearly ended up cooked like lobsters as well. That had made Arte mighty steamed in a different sense. Hopefully he'd be able to talk himself out of whatever mess he'd just gotten himself into this time too. For one terrifying second it felt as if the person holding onto his top half was losing his grip and was about to drop Arte from who knew what height as he was being carried up a flight of steps. But that unseen person regained his balance and grip, and after a few more confusing twists and turns, Arte was set down, standing upright still like a statue, his hand still reaching back to scratch at his neck. Just as he felt his ability to move starting to return, fingers and arm twitching stiffly, the bag was removed from his head and he could see again.

"Welcome to my abode, Señor Gonzaleez, if that is your real name," a new, deep voice boomed down at him. "You make a most interesting looking sculpture. Tell me why I should not have you bronzed and turned into one permanently."

With his neck still the stiffest part of him, Arte had to move in an almost curtsy-performing fashion to angle his head and see the speaker towering above on an elaborate inlaid wooden dais. His lips, tongue and vocal cords hadn't entirely unfrozen yet either, but even if they had, he might still have been struck speechless by the figure in front of him. If Miguelito Loveless were about ten years younger and had surgically transplanted his head onto the body of a circus strongman in aristocrats' clothing, this would be the result. The facial resemblance he bore to Loveless, the wide, thin-lipped mouth with the menacing, toothy smile, the bright, intelligent eyes with a spark of insanity behind them . . . .

"e . . . el . . . Tigre . . . ." Arte managed to stammer.

"Ah! But where are my manners?" Hector el Tigre laughed, making a booming clap of his hands that brought two house-uniformed servants in front of their master's throne. "Wine for our guest! And the towel for the neck!"

A moment later, one of the servants was placing a warm, damp towel around the back of Arte's neck, from which the dart had been removed, and a moment after that, Arte was holding a cup of hot mulled wine in fingers that were once more under his control. He could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on, as he had after the Chinese tong gang had drugged him, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Tentatively, he took a sip of the wine, conscious that he couldn't afford to offend his host, but also remembering what had once happened to Jim after accepting the hospitality of one of Dr. Loveless' cigars. For all that they were nothing alike in body or voice, the family resemblances shared by Miguelito Loveless and his disagreeable cousin were startling. If Arte hadn't known that Hector was indeed a separate person, he might have thought he was standing before the real Dr. Miguelito Loveless, and that Loveless had been experimenting on himself to give himself the body he'd always wanted. It wasn't a reassuring sensation.

"Your . . . pardon, Señor el Tigre," Arte said, managing to bow his head low before the imperious individual confronting him.

"Well at least you know enough to ask for it!" Hector el Tigre snorted. "So many of the ilk that come here do not! They do not understand the proper way to behave when brought before someone of my majesty and natural superiority! My magnanimity!"

 _Yes – oh, that monstrous conceit - Hector was Loveless' cousin for certain!_

 _Practically a fraternal twin . . . ._

It took every bit of acting skill Arte had in him to keep from appearing as appalled as he was in that moment. One Loveless was bad enough, but _two_ of them? Yet his past encounters with the mad little wizard had been instructive and could help him here too. Miguelito's ego allowed him to be played like a violin using the right technique. This was just a matter of tuning up a slightly different instrument. Arte took another cautious sip of the wine, and as Gonzaleez smacked his lips with appreciation.

"You are a most generous host, Señor el Tigre."

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" Hector el Tigre buffed his fingernails on his outer jacket, inspected them, and appeared pleased by the compliment. "It is a wise man who recognizes it. And you," he peered down again sharply at Artemus, "have passed something of a little test I give to all who seek out my abode. I should tell you now, many who come here in search of employment do not find it with me. But many who come with a desire to make trouble for me succeed in getting more trouble than they can handle – fatal trouble in fact. So what is it that brings you to my little corner of Mexico?"

Artemus shrugged, testing to see if the full range of sensation and motion was coming back into his shoulders and neck yet. So far so good.

"As you say, Señor, you are a man of great reputation, a leader among men, majestic, a visionary . . . ." 'Gonzaleez' was doing his best to lay it on with his biggest trowel.

"Yes, yes?" Hector el Tigre demanded, not because he was annoyed or impatient with the flattery, but because he was so eager to have more of it. His guest obliged.

" . . . . a man who is _meant_ to be a ruler! Such a man is the _most_ worthy to work for! And who of course deserves only the best of talents." Arte shrugged again, indicating himself with his hands. "And as for me, Señor, I wish to serve only such a man as that. I have many skills - _many_ – I do not wish to work for anyone who does not deserve them! But _you_ , Señor el Tigre, I would be _very_ content to be employed by one such as you! Alas!" He shook his head. "There is no other el Jefe Grande1 who can compare to you to work for! There is only you, so I am here to offer you my services," 'Gonzaleez bowed low before the big man on the throne. "I know you are a man of such tastes and distinction . . . ." He let his voice trail off to imply the rest. _Are you buying this, you monster?_

Evidently, the Tiger did buy it. He threw back his head and laughed – again, with a deep, booming sound unlike Dr. Loveless' high-pitched snorts, cackles and braying – but so like Loveless in appearance and mannerism that Arte laughed along a little to keep himself from shuddering.

"Well, well!" Hector smirked as he brought himself under control. "I can certainly see you are someone with good taste! And no false modesty either – I like that!" Hector held one mighty hand up and the room went silent. 'Gonzaleez' stopped his chuckling and looked about the room, taking his visual cue from the way others were behaving. All of them kept their fixed, and in some cases worshipful, focus on the big man on the dais. Hector then snapped the fingers of his right hand loudly and from the curtain behind the dais, there came a shimmering of the fabrics followed by a parting of the curtain and the appearance of a female figure who strode over majestically to the Tiger's side. Arte again needed all his actor talents to keep his jaw from dropping at the sight of her.

 _Kitten Twitty! What was_ she _doing here?_

But no – this woman _couldn't_ be Kitten Twitty. Not because Arte believed she'd drowned – he knew that Antoinette and Loveless had survived their boating mishap, so he'd always assumed Kitten had as well. However, just as Hector el Tigre was both like and unlike his mad cousin, this woman, while resembling Kitten Twitty a great deal physically, sported some glaringly obvious differences. Arte began noticing and cataloguing them immediately. Her haughty, regal bearing and graceful, confident stride were those of a queen – not a self-loathing, bashful and miserable servant woman. She was dressed and made up to be a Queen of Sheba too, in rich, shimmering silks and precious jewels that flattered her lightly tanned complexion and long, shining hair. In spite of her, _ahem_ , generous proportions, she was in her own way beautiful. She was the person that Kitten Twitty wouldn't have known she had it in herself to become.

"Eh, my Ghattina," Hector smiled at her with affection as his concubine emerged to stand by him. "What do you think of this new recruit?"

Ghattina looked down at Artemus/Gonzaleez as if he were nothing more than a mouseling for her to play with and eat. There was intelligence and suspicion as well as contempt in that glare, however. Arte decided his best bet was not to cower under that gaze, but to meet it as if ready to offer a challenge of his own. As his Great Aunt Maude had told him, when a cat is stalking, it pays to be the dog.

"He's small," she said after a second of hesitation. "But he did beat Toroloco."

"So he did!" Smug and pleased, Hector took her meaty left hand into his even meatier right hand, raised it to his mouth and kissed it. "A tryout, then, and a closer examination of these skills he makes reference to?"

Ghattina nodded, caressing Hector's hand, perhaps unconsciously. Her eyes never left 'Gonzaleez' for a minute.

 _Ghattina must be his Antoinette_ , Arte thought. Like Antoinette, she might be extremely dangerous in her own right. _Only she's built more like Voltaire!_ No need to wonder why Hector would have taken such a large woman for his mistress, though. At his own size, he might have had to worry about crushing a smaller woman while romancing her. Together, they were an ultimate power couple. Arte got the sinking feeling that his and Jim's already near-impossible mission had just become twice as hard.

Jim should have made contact with Ruiseñor by now. They'd be expecting Arte to carry out his mission of prepping Hector's hideout for their breaking, entering and grabbing scheme, so Arte had better get on it. Keeping his own eyes on Ghattina and Hector, but bowing low once more, he accepted the offer of a tryout – and a journey into the tiger's mouth . . . .

1 Big Boss


	5. Bad Blood

"Señor West, you look much better, but . . . ."

Jim frowned and wrinkled his nose again. He couldn't blame Tequila for keeping her distance, verbally or physically. In spite of the need for disguise, he had nearly scrubbed his skin raw when afforded the luxury of Tequila's washroom and had changed into some raggedy Mexican peasant clothes Tequila produced. The bum's stinking rags were now deposited in a tightly-lidded tin can. He was, as Tequila said, back to looking more like his handsome self, but as for the smell . . . .

"I know, I know," he groaned. He _was_ clean, he _felt_ clean. Yet the stench, even if reduced in potency, still clung to him like a second skin. There would be no seduction of Tequila, or any other woman, until Arte's concoction wore off. It would wear off – Jim was confident of that – and he definitely knew who the real stinker was. But there would be no getting back at his partner until after they got back to the states with Dr. Loveless. In the meantime, while Jim had been seeing to his ablutions, Tequila filled him in as best she could on Loveless' large and dangerous cousin.

It seemed that Hector el Tigre was indeed close kin to Miguelito. He was – according to Tequila's sources – the bastard offspring of a disgraced younger brother to Miguelito's mother by yet another cousin of the family. Both the younger brother and his pregnant 'kissing cousin' had been disinherited by their grandfather, leaving Miguelito the official titular heir to his family's dubious California claim. This, in spite of Miguelito's obvious physical – Jim couldn't help it – shortcomings, had left the Tiger with a mountain-sized grudge. Only Dr. Loveless' own mountain-sized ego could have persuaded him that seeking such an ally/vassal would be a good idea. Jim would have seen el Tigre's response coming a mile away. Loveless had not. Now the Tiger had a mad mouse in its jaws – and who could say that the Tiger wasn't mad also? Tequila had a photograph of Hector el Tigre that not only showed a startling family resemblance, but a not-quite-sane gleam in the eyes that Jim recognized all too well. He had seen that same gleam in many other pairs of enemy eyes.

"I would not doubt it, Señor," Tequila said when Jim raised the possibility. "Men do many mad things in pursuit of honor or power. El Tigre wants both. Power he has, and riches too. But not honor. His cousin that you seek has that."

Jim found it difficult to associate Dr. Miguelito Loveless with anything that could be considered honor. Anyone who would attempt to kill countless innocent people for his mad ends, or who would casually murder his own loyal employees as Loveless had done, didn't seem to be deserving of any honorific. Still, the solution to el Tigre's problem should have been frightfully simple.

"Why hasn't he killed Loveless then? Wouldn't that make el Tigre the sole claimant?"

Tequila shook her head.

"It could not make him a _legitimate_ claimant, Señor West. Nothing can change the condition of his birth, or the condition of his parents who were disinherited. He could still attempt to take his cousin's place by force, si, but that is the path of the pirate, of a man without honor."

"So he expects Loveless to change that for him somehow?"

"Si. He will want your Dr. Loveless to formally recognize him as family, as his kin. This would give el Tigre the honor he seeks."

"And no rationale to keep Miguelito alive after that." Oh, this wasn't a pretty picture shaping up at all – _and he sure as hell isn't 'my' doctor!_ Jim thought fiercely. "Let me guess. It also wouldn't count if he just tortured or threatened Loveless into accepting him as an heir. Because that wouldn't be an act of honor, of course." Yes, it was one nasty Mexican standoff all right. Loveless as a fugitive must have thought he could get his wealthy, honor-hungry cousin to serve him and provide him with resources by waving an empty promise of recognition in Hector's face. But el Tigre hadn't been a gullible fool like so many of Loveless' other henchies and associates. He might have a powerful intellect to match his cousin's, plus an equally strong will to boot. If anything, here on his own home base he would want Loveless to kowtow to _him,_ not the other way around, which egomaniacal Loveless would never do, of course. So both men were caught on the horns of a major family dilemma, with neither willing to give an inch to the other, but with the strategic advantage in the Tiger's court for the moment. "They sound like they deserve each other."

"Do they, Señor?" Tequila asked, shaking her head again. "I know little of this Dr. Loveless, who has not lived here in many years, only of Hector el Tigre, and he is a monster." She waved her hand around the taberna's back room in a gesture to indicate their outside surroundings. "Santa Bonita used to be a happy village, but not now. To get what he wants, el Tigre will consume and destroy all."

"Loveless is no better," Jim told her. "In fact, I'd say he's worse, but that's just my experience of him. He's a scientific genius whose ambitions no longer stop at the California borderline, if they ever did. He'd crush the whole world under his foot if given the chance."

"Then why not leave him to his fate? Why can we not let them destroy each other?" Anger lit up Tequila's eyes and she curled her lips in challenge. Jim would have loved to uncurl those lips in his own preferred method if not for his smell, and yes, there was a certain temptation to the prospect of ridding the world of Dr. Miguelito Loveless once and for all. Tequila couldn't be entrusted with the full purpose behind their present mission – no one must know about that. But there was an even more potent argument to be made with her.

"We can't take the chance that Loveless and el Tigre will somehow make amends and become allies after all," he said. "Can you imagine what might happen if the two of them teamed up? What might happen to anything or anyone who got in their way?"

Tequila shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Si, Señor West. I have seen what el Tigre alone is capable of and I have . . . a good imagination." She nodded. "It is as you say. I will help you in this quest of yours, and not just because Enrique and Rita asked me to."

Tequila wasn't the only one to fear such a possibility. Perhaps this mission was necessary for more than the saving of a U.S. President. Preventing a criminal super-alliance was on Jim's mind as well. Curse it or not, the disguise Arte made for him had worked so far. He hoped his partner had managed to avoid trouble as well, because if there was one bargaining chip Hector might be able to hold out to get what he wanted from Loveless, Jim knew what it was.

 _Us_.

Miguelito craved revenge like Hector craved honor. Jim hoped el Tigre didn't know that – not that the two Secret Service agents planned to get captured.

"Are there other people in Santa Bonita who will be willing to help us?" he asked.

"Si. We are not all cowards here. But the people must see you act first. Enrique has told me that you and Señor Gordon can work miracles, and Rita says this is true also. Others have promised us miracles and have not delivered them. We wish no more martyrs."

"I don't intend to be one or let any of your people become that either. But we may need to create a diversion once we've grabbed Loveless."

They would need more than that, Jim realized, taking in Tequila's gaze and her talk of non-existent miracles and existent martyrs. She and the villagers of Santa Bonita needed something more than just their original mission. It wasn't enough for them to simply snatch Loveless from his cousin and beat a hasty exit back to California. An enraged Tiger could take his fury out on the local populace if they did that. Jim hadn't come down here with the intention of fomenting mini-revolutions against Mexican warlords, but no way was he going to leave behind a large number of easy, innocent targets in his wake. He and Arte would have to find a way to take out as much of el Tigre's arsenal and private army as possible, and take Hector down several pegs as well. Otherwise there would be martyrs all right. If they made an impressive enough show of it, though, they might get the oft-disorganized Mexican Army to move in and arrest el Tigre. Enrique had been promoted since the tangle with Thorvald Wolf. Perhaps he could help with that.

In the meantime, Jim began getting an idea – a beautiful, terrible, wonderful idea . . . . A very Jim West idea.

"Tequila," he said, "I know you have access to the piñata factory. I'm going to need piñatas – a _lot_ of them . . . ."


	6. Jive Talking

At least he couldn't complain that employees around here were ill-treated, Arte thought as he wandered around the twists and turns of el Tigre's vast fortress while trying to get the lay of the land and deposit a few special items where he and Jim might need them. Jim's tactic of concealing an object in putty stuck to the ceiling had been so successful in one of Count Manzeppi's hideouts that they'd decided to use it here too. Designed as the grand residence of a former territorial governor, el Tigre's palace offered lots of such hiding places – and not for any ordinary putty either. Arte just hoped that el Tigre and Ghattina were so used to looking down at others they wouldn't spend a great deal of time looking up.

 _And speaking of looking down at others . . . ._

Arte had not had any luck locating the supposedly captive Dr. Loveless so far. As Gonzaeleez, he could not openly ask about the malevolent midget. He probably shouldn't ask about dungeons either, unless he wanted to wind up in one involuntarily. But he did need to locate el Tigre's jail cells, or whatever sort of place the big man might be using as a prison for his evil little cousin. A gilded cage? An iron oubliette? The United States penitentiary system had never been able to keep Dr. Loveless in captivity for very long. Then again, that system had proven disastrously porous in other ways, as the 'Charles Lane' case revealed. And Emmett Stark. And . . . .

It made Arte almost ill to think about all those other incidents. Might they wind up returning Loveless to the one country and penal system he was virtually guaranteed to escape from? And yet, what other choice did they have?

"Pardone, Señor."

Just in time to wonder if he had unspoken too soon, Arte looked down to see a young errand boy about to tug on his shirt.

"Señor Gonzaleez," the boy panted, apparently having run this way, but without making enough noise for Arte to have noticed him until he spoke, "Señor el Tigre sent me to find you."

A job from the boss-man already? Well, it was too early to hope that Jim might be making contact, perhaps.

"Si?" 'Gonzaleez' asked.

The boy nodded.

"Señor el Tigre wishes me to tell you that dinner is going to be in the purple room at six o'clock tonight, and that you are to be there."

 _Oho._

"And where is this purple room? Can you show me the way?"

The boy nodded again and led Arte to a large chamber that resembled an interesting cross between a dining salon and another throne room. Lunch that day had been a satisfying communal affair in a more coarse hall for the common denizens of this inner sanctum, who were many in number. Dinner in this room would be a more intimate, formal affair with the king and queen of this criminal realm seated on two magnificent chairs behind a private dining table set on another dais. Beneath the level of 'their majesties,' a perpendicular, rectangular table was already set with ten place settings, one of them evidently for him. But most fascinating of all, at another setting, a pair of cushions had been positioned on the seat, as if a guest sitting in that spot might have trouble being high up enough without them. Well, well, well . . . . Now wasn't that convenient? Of course, he needed to be as sure as possible about exactly who this was convenient for.

"And will you be at the dinner also?" the fake Señor Gonzaleez asked the young boy.

"I, Señor?" The youthful servant seemed astonished. "No! It is for the honored guests of Señor el Tigre!" _And not for unwashed peasant servants_ seemed to be the unspoken end of the sentence. Arte must have been sufficiently flattering to his hosts to be included in such company. And this didn't look to be an affair for children in the making either.

"I only ask," Gonzaleez shrugged, nodding toward the cushioned chair, "because you are the shortest person I have seen here. You _are_ the shortest, yes?"

"No!" the boy protested hotly. "There is-" He started to name someone else, then suddenly clamped his mouth shut as if realizing it would be better to say no more. But the implication of his being small and in need of a booster seat must have stung the youth's pre-teen pride. "I am not the smallest," he muttered with as much insolence as he dared. "You will be at the dinner. You will see."

Arte was looking forward to it.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

"Remember, you must tell _no one_ ," the lovely bar-mistress said to her taberna-keeper boss. "It is the greatest secret! _No one must know!_ "

The gruff man nodded his assent in the dark silence of the taberna before Tequila slipped out and back to the alleyway where James West was waiting.

"Well?" the still unpleasant-smelling bum asked her.

"It is done, Señor West," she nodded. "By tomorrow at noon, the story will be all over Santa Bonita. El Tigre's helpers will be sure to notice."

Tequila was fond of her boss, but she knew his weaknesses well. She and the rest of Enrique's small intelligence network knew, with utter precision, how to use the locality's worst secret keepers as well as its best ones. By this time the next day, word would have come to el Tigre's ears of a priceless ring being smuggled north concealed in a piñata. The ring, supposedly a jewel-encrusted signet brought over by the late kinsman of Napoleon Bonaparte, would be too tempting a target for the bandit chief to resist. Of course, it would also be too tempting for Hector's various lackeys to resist also, especially if they each thought the smuggled object was a carefully guarded secret that only _they_ knew of . . . .

And Jim had spent the past several hours stripping the Wanderer almost bare of chemicals and munitions to make sure those were some very special piñatas indeed. Life for the Tiger was about to get _interesting_.

That should create enough havoc for Jim and Arte to grab Dr. Loveless from el Tigre's hideout and make their getaway, while Enrique's Mexican Army unit and the resisters among Santa Bonita's populace had a fighting chance to succeed in their own aim. Now to find a way to sneak into the crime lord's citadel, not exactly smelling like a rose himself, and hope that Arte had located the mini-miscreant they sought . . . .


	7. One Bad Apple

New recruit Señor Gonzaleez arrived early to his formal dinner with his new employer, as behooved someone trying to make a good impression. Most of the other guests had chosen to be timely for this glittering affair with the most intimidating of hosts as well. They were a mixed but fascinating lot that gave Secret Service Agent Artemus Gordon flashbacks to a brief, quaint vacation in Justice, Nevada. Here was Little Pinto's dear cousin Appaloosa Al, wanted in at least five states. Over there was Sadie Silver the Saloon Slayer, well-named with her golden garter-garottes. But where was the oh-so-short dinner guest he dreaded and desired to see most of all? Mingling among such murderers and murderesses was all very well and non-good, but where was Miguelito Loveless?

Arte still didn't have the answer to his question as the tinkling of a bell signaled for them all to take their places at the dinner table. 'Gonzaleez' found himself seated next to the charming Miss Silver on his left and a lovely, unknown, but no doubt murderous maiden on his right. Nine guests occupied nine well set places at the table before the mighty Hector el Tigre and his consort Ghattina settled into their thrones up on the dais. The cushioned chair sat alone. Arte got his answer to the little man's whereabouts soon after their hosts arrived and the dinner was about to commence in proper however. As delicate iced fruit cups were set down before each guest by uniformed (and armed, Arte noticed) waiters, the Tiger clapped his hands loudly once more. All conversation paused and the guests turned their attention to a set of glass double doors at the far end of the room where a pair of guards were standing at sharp attention. A different bell rang rather than tinkled, the doors opened and Arte had to crane his neck to see the figure being escorted in between two more guards.

 _Loveless._

Yes – here was their worst enemy all right, in Hector el Tigre's Mexican hideout as they'd been told, and he did appear to be a prisoner if the shackles he was wearing, made out of solid gold, and the guards holding onto the chains attached were any indication. Those shackles must have been as ponderously heavy as they were shining and beautiful, and they definitely slowed down Loveless' already-crooked gait. But in spite of the physical burden and indignity they represented, Dr. Miguelito Quixote Loveless strode into the room as if he owned it and all enclosed within were _his_ guests, here for his sole benefit. He did not grant his cousin el Tigre so much as a sideways glance as he made his way over to the cushioned chair and permitted his guards to lift him up into it. Thus ensconced on his lesser throne, with full aplomb, Loveless nodded to the company, picked up his spoon in a way that made his arm chain clank, and helped himself to a first bite of the fruit cup.

"Aaahh!" Loveless exclaimed approvingly, closing his eyes and smacking his lips in ecstasy as he chewed and swallowed the chunk of fruit. "Guava! My favorite!"

The spell suddenly broken, the rest of the company commenced with eating their own fruit cups and taking up the threads of conversation once more. Arte, trying to keep both eyes on Loveless and both eyes on Hector el Tigre at the same time, found it a hopeless task. He had to settle on dividing his attention between them, which seemed much more manageable since Loveless wasn't committing mayhem to anything except bite-sized pieces of fruit at the moment. The little doctor remained as much a connoisseur of fine food as ever. Hector el Tigre, however, was biting down on his own fruit as if it were a hated enemy he was determined to crush with his mouth. He used such force of jaw and hand that the delicate spoon was bending in his mighty grip. Where Loveless was enjoying himself, smug and content, the true host of the occasion fumed silently, staring daggers at his little cousin while decimating his first course. What sort of game was Loveless playing? Arte knew the little monster enjoyed making others dance to his tune, but the doctor's cheerful obliviousness to his situation and his cousin seemed reckless even for him. He did not have the tiger by the tail here, but by the claw, and that isn't a good position for someone who's too shackled to run.

Arte's own obliviousness had annoyed a tigress much closer to him though.

"I _said_ ," Sadie Silver hissed, nudging him in the ribs a bit, "do you prefer knives or bullets as the best means of killing an opponent?"

"Oh, uh, but such weapons are crude," he responded, batting his eyebrows and flashing a grin at her. "I prefer to slay with my rapier wit!"

This comment caused his other female dining companion to draw back in alarm.

"You _rape_ your victims to death, Señor Gonzaleez?" she gasped, while Sadie rolled her eyes.

"No!" Arte cried, genuinely horrified at the misunderstanding. "I-"

He was about to explain what he meant when a banging of el Tigre's fist on the high table brought all other noise in the room to a standstill again.

"Cousin Miguelito!" the Tiger roared. "I have allowed you to come to our nice dinner! But I did not say you could bring your pets!"

Arte glanced back over to where Loveless was sitting. His attention had been turned away for only seconds, but in that time Dr. Loveless' trained pet raven had appeared from somewhere to take up a perch on his master's shoulder. Loveless blithely ignored his cousin's enraged outburst, reached down into his fruit cup with careful fingers and plucked out a grape to hand feed to his feathered minion.

"There, there," he cooed to the raven. "Don't be frightened of the nasty puddy tat. Just have your treat and tell me if you can find anything here I should know about." Then, with a flick of those long fingers, he sent the bird flying into the air to flap about the fancy room.

Artemus would have thought that 'the nasty puddy tat's' fury was something sufficient for Loveless to pay attention to – and that any smart bird would mind it too. This particular puddy tat was a lot larger and fiercer than Loveless' former pet pussycat, after all. But the bird, as heedless of el Tigre's outrage as Loveless himself, circled and swooped in the confined space, causing the other dinner guests to duck, swear or in a few cases draw their weapons. There was much for the raven to fear, or shiny to be attracted to in this room.

"LOVELESS!" Hector stood straight up and put his hand on the jeweled dagger at his belt. Whether he intended to draw it on the bird or his kinsman, Arte couldn't tell.

The raven continued its circuit of the room with one near-miss encounter by a dinner guest's dagger when, to Arte's astonishment, it alit on the top of his head all of a sudden, spread out its wings and squawked to its master and everyone in its hearing range.

"Rawk! Artemus Gordon! Artemus Gordon! Rawk!"

 _What? How?_

Arte tried to shoo the bird away, but it only flapped and hovered above his head, squawking out his name once more while every eye – and weapon – in the room suddenly turned in his direction. Dr. Loveless threw back his head in one of his braying, sniggering laughs as the raven flew back to his shoulder.

"Why, Mr. Gordon, how good of you to join us!"

Arte, identity now fully exposed, did not try to hide his chagrin as Loveless clapped with glee.

"Oh, very good!" Loveless told the raven. "Very, very good!" Loveless stopped clapping and extracted another piece of fruit as a reward for the bird, golden arm shackle still clinking away. The other dinner guests, meanwhile, keeping their weapons trained on Arte, got up from their places and were slowly backing away from the table. Arte became conscious of tension, thick as a tug rope, placing him right in between an old, dangerous enemy and a new, equally dangerous one. Beside el Tigre, Ghattina was rising also.

"Gonzaleez!" Hector demanded. "Is this true? Are you Señor Artemus Gordon?" The bandit chieftain was almost pulsing with rage. He would not want it to be true, because that might mean Gonzaleez' praise of him was false also, but one of the more intrepid guards dared to approach Artemus and ripped off his false mustache with one lip-stinging yank. "So," el Tigre growled, "a liar, and a bare-faced one at that."

Arte shrugged, wondering what could possibly get him out of this situation, when Loveless unwisely chose to draw the room – and the Tiger's – attention back to himself.

"Naturally," Loveless preened to the other prisoner present, "you will be wondering how my clever bird saw through your disguise, which isn't a bad one, by the way."

"Thank you," Arte sighed. "I was, now that you mention it." Not that he had to worry about Loveless keeping the secret from him. If there was one thing the little wizard loved, it was having a captive audience for one of his tell-all monologues.

"Such an incredible animal, the raven," Loveless grinned, running a hand over its feathers. "So intelligent, unlike the bulk of humanity." He spared his cousin and Ghattina a quick glance as he said it, leaving nothing to doubt about the implication as Hector clenched his fists in rage. "So little understood, rather like me! Why, do you know, Mr. Gordon, that most of your so-called scientists think ravens don't have the ability to smell at all, in spite of the obvious evidence that these creatures not only have nostrils, they can find their food over great distances regardless of whether it is visible or not? Those fools completely ignore the truths right in front of them, under their noses as it were, whereas I, Mr. Gordon, do not!" Loveless folded his outsize hands together and gloated in Arte's direction. "In fact, ravens have an excellent sense of smell, and since you and your partner Mr. West have spent so much time in my company, it was a small matter to gather some of the objects you've both left your scents on and teach my little pet here to recognize them! Why, he's as good as any bloodhound, only better – bloodhounds can't fly!" The malevolent midget began clapping again and chortling, but there was nothing amusing about this situation. If looks could kill, Hector's glare would have slain Loveless a thousand times over, but the doctor continued to ignore him. The killers and cut-throats arrayed around the room did not. They gave way as el Tigre stepped down from his dais and began striding toward his cousin, murder writ large on his features.

"Oh, but where are my manners?" Loveless asked, slapping himself on one knee with another clinking sound. The Tiger halted in his tracks, waiting to hear what apology Loveless might have to offer. Yet Loveless kept his focus solely on Artemus. "I nearly forgot to inquire, Mr. Gordon. How _is_ your partner, Mr. West?"

"He's, um, fine, as far as I know," Arte said. _A lot more than I can say for myself!_

"Of course, I don't need to ask _where_ your partner is," Loveless said, sending the raven aloft with a flick of his hands once more, and making a peculiar whistling sound which caused the bird to fly out the nearest window. "Because my precious pet will find him for me!" The doctor's facial expression sobered and now he too began to glare – at Artemus. "Only this time, Mr. Gordon, neither one of you is going to spoil my plans! This time, you cannot possibly stop me from succeeding! It is I, Dr. Miguelito Quixote Loveless, who will emerge triumphant!"

"I do not think so, Señor," Hector rumbled, standing directly behind the gold-shackled gloater on the cushioned chair.

Arte shivered, in spite of himself. A man can only be pushed just so far, and it looked to him like Hector el Tigre had definitely reached his limits. Arte wondered if he was about to see their familiar archenemy torn limb from tiny limb right before his eyes. He could sympathize with the desire to maul the mad scientist, but they needed Loveless alive.

"And, ah, just what _is_ your master plan this time, may I ask?" Arte made a gesture with his hands, hoping to draw el Tigre's attention back to him long enough for Hector to reconsider his course of action. Loveless, preening, didn't help at all.

"You may ask, Mr. Gordon," Loveless said, making closer examination of his manicured fingernails. "But I'm afraid you'll have to wait until our dear friend Mr. West joins us. I do so hate repeating myself."

 _As if you ever tire of the sound of your own voice!_ Arte thought.

"Once I have Mr. West in my grasp, however, I shall-"

Loveless' boast was cut off as his cousin gave an angry snort, more like a bull about to charge than any size of cat, and clamped a firm hand down on the little wizard's shoulder. At last, Loveless seemed to realize the very real and mortal danger he was in. Hector's grasp wasn't crushing that tiny shoulder – yet. But that might come at any minute.

"I do not think it is you who will take down this man West." Hector's voice was now quiet, deep, and as threatening as any Arte had ever heard. "It is I who will finish him! After I have finished you."

Those words, even more than the hand, got Loveless' attention. For the first time, he attempted to turn his head around to face the Tiger directly.

"You can't do that!" he exclaimed in horror. "Mr. West is mine!"

"You think so?" Hector scoffed. "Give me one good reason." There was a slight, menacing smile on el Tigre's face – expressed pleasure at having his cousin's full attention and at the new notes of agitated panic in Loveless' voice.

"Because he's _my_ enemy!" Loveless cried. "I – I saw him first!"

"You call that a reason?" Hector's other hand descended upon Loveless' opposite shoulder and in one swift motion he picked the doctor up, shackles, chains and all while the guardsmen holding onto the gold chains dropped them and got out of the angry Tiger's way. They were wise to do so. In the next moment, el Tigre shook Loveless with enough force to make those heavy chains flap every which way, enough force almost to shake the midget's outsize head off his shoulders, it looked like. By the time he paused a few seconds later, only Loveless' pride and iron discipline appeared to be keeping the dizzy doctor from fainting or throwing up.

"I have taken you into my house! Fed you from my table! Hidden you from the law!" Hector yelled. "All this, I have done for you, and for what? Rudeness! Ingratitude! You think you are worthy of commanding me?"

Arte, desperate to forestall bloodshed, stood up in spite of a guard's attempt to push him back down, and waved both hands to call for a truce.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" he exclaimed. "There's no need to argue! I'm sure there's plenty enough James West to go around for everybody! Can't we just talk things over?" He hoped his most disarming smile would be disarming enough. "I mean, you're all family here, right?"

Glib talk might have been his specialty, but as soon as those last words were out of his mouth, Arte got the feeling they were a mistake. Both cousins stared at him agog, as if he were some sort of madman. To try and come between these two, perhaps he was one, he thought glumly.

"Mr. Gordon!" Loveless protested. "Do you really think that I, Dr. Miguelito Quixote Loveless, direct descendant of the crowned heads of Spain, would consider this – this backwater barbarian bandit _family_?"

 _Wrong answer, wrong answer!_ Arte cried inwardly, wondering if their nuisance nemesis had lost whatever sense of self-preservation he had left. The offended el Tigre's face was redder and angrier than ever as he made ready to shake the little man to pieces again.

"We are both descended from those 'crowned heads' as you put it – I no less than you!" Hector rumbled. "But only one of us is fit to claim their legacy! I see that now!"

"Well thank you for that at least," Loveless harrumphed, mistaking the big man's meaning. "I-" Further words were cut off as Hector's grip on Loveless' shoulders grew tight enough to make those appendages squeak.

"I do not mean **YOU**!" Hector roared loud enough to rattle the delicate chandelier above them. "I will no longer be denied what is rightfully mine! I will not allow our family's history to be diminished by this puny, deformed dolly-man! By this blemish on the glorious name of-"

"Puny!" Loveless shrieked, attempting to kick Hector in the chin but missing because of the weight of his leg shackle. "I am a mental giant among men! A genius above all others! And at least I was born on the right side of the blankets, unlike you, you misbegotten, musclebound, mor-"

"Gentlemen!" Arte shouted again, trying to think of anything that might end this quarrel, when even he was interrupted by the return of the raven. The bird flapped straight toward the two cousins, its appearance sudden enough to cause Hector to drop Loveless in a heap while shielding his eyes from the pecking pet. But the bird didn't attack Hector or return to its fallen master's rumpled shoulders either. Instead it landed squarely on the dining room table, spread out its wings, and once more made a pronouncement for the whole room to hear.

"Rawk! James West is dead! James West is dead! Rawk!"

 _Jim – dead? How?_

While Arte stared at the bird in shock, Hector el Tigre was the one to throw back his head and laugh this time.

"So! Loveless one!" Hector now gloated down at his fallen cousin, who looked as shocky as Arte himself. "It seems someone or something has saved me the trouble of disposing of your Mr. West already! Now I have only to kill the two of you!"

"But you can't!" Loveless was sweating now, his voice shrill. "I am the true heir to the Kingdom of California! I am the only legitimate claimant! I am the world's greatest genius! These people here recognize that!" He gestured around the room, and thus around a group of criminal cut-throats who seemed more eager to recognize the course was likeliest to lead to their immediate safety and then profit. They knew which side their tortillas were buttered on, and it clearly wasn't Loveless doing the buttering. Much, much too late, the still-shackled prisoner realized that his hand wasn't so much weak as non-existent. As the assembled drew their weapons again, not to side with him against el Tigre, but rather to pledge those weapons to el Tigre's cause against Loveless, the triumphant Tiger laughed again.

"Do you really think a bird in the bush is worth more than two in the hand?" he chortled, snatching his small cousin up by the chains and dangling him like a puppet. "There is no more honor to be had in tolerating you and your insults! No honor at all."

With the armed guards clamping onto Arte's own shoulders and the select squad of killers moving forward, Arte could only look over at the man he'd come to rescue with bitter chagrin.

"Got any more bright ideas?" he asked.


	8. Rhythm of the Night

James West, once more looking (and still smelling) like a no-good bum – but not in his original, even smellier rags – slowly stood up in the alleyway. He'd been crouched motionless in the evening shadows as he waited to watch a quartet of Enrique's soldiers escort the wagon of very special piñatas through a precinct of Santa Bonita very close to Hector el Tigre's stronghold. The piñatas themselves had been disguised in military provision sacks, just to make the smuggling story seem even more plausible. A certain amount of care was needed in transporting such a quantity of contact-explosives and volatile chemicals anyway. Plus, several of the piñatas had been filled with false glittering rings from the nearby toy, novelty and junk shops whose owners had already taken a strategic holiday. At least three of the less explosive piñatas contained very realistic looking 'paste' jeweled rings from the Wanderer's disguise collection. Detectable as fakes only to an expert, those ought to lead to some memorable fights indeed. Everything was going according to plan.

Well, almost everything. At one point during his silent sentry duty, Jim had been assailed by a large dark bird that had flapped into the alley. Keeping as still as possible, Jim realized there were other disadvantages to smelling like trail-kill. He was afraid the bird might try to peck at his eyes. But Tequila had seen it too from her own hidden vantage point and had sent it flying off in haste with a well-placed sling shot warning. One less worry averted – or was it? As the bird had taken off, Jim could've sworn he heard it saying something, though he couldn't quite make out what it was. Was this creature another one of Loveless' trained pets? Or one belonging to Hector el Tigre? Or was this whole assignment starting to make him a bit paranoid? He had some uneasy flashbacks to the trained birds used by Tycho and Dr. Occularis, birds which had triggered the diabolical hypnotic spells that had nearly turned Jim and fellow agent Frank Harper into murderers. Birds, especially ravens, hadn't been among his favorite animals after that. Good thing Arte liked to do all the doting on Henrietta and Arabella!

Jim set aside thoughts of worrisome fowls as a first 'customer' came into view. He signaled to Tequila, who signaled to Enrique's second-in-command in a subtle fashion. All three of them saw the far less subtle saunterer trying to sneak up on the wagon from the shadows of one of the side streets. He apparently had a partner too. Jim caught the barest glimpse of a rifle barrel sticking out of the upstairs window of a building that should have been empty. Not a bad plan. One person to fire on the military guards from up above while the person on the ground – possibly with another buddy or two – goes for the smash-and-grab. Too obvious in its execution though. These weren't the elite crooks Jim was expecting el Tigre to employ, just some local opportunists. As such, they needed to be dealt with, and dealt with in the right way. Coolly, Jim drew out the special rifle he had prepared for this occasion and waited for the person behind the other rifle to lean forward just a little more to try for a shot. It only took a few seconds. With the same unerring aim that had once allowed him to shoot a silver dollar off the top of a church steeple, Jim fired first.

Jim's special gun, a compressed-air powered rifle that was one of Arte's clever inventions, didn't fire bullets at all, but launched darts and other projectiles instead, and it did so silently. The drugged dart struck home and the other rifle barrel slumped as its wielder went down for an unexpected siesta. Jim then tossed the air rifle over his shoulder – its major disadvantage being that it needed hand reloading after every shot – and drew his pistol, scanning upper stories and rooflines for any more opponents. Enrique's men, on alert, were scanning too. The sauntering man on the ground, now dangerously exposed, was looking up as well. This small-time crook must have been wondering why his co-conspirator wasn't firing. As one of Enrique's soldiers began to approach him, he threw a small smoke bomb and made a run for it without any prize. Jim and Tequila signaled the soldiers not to pursue, but to let the troublemaker go.

This was exactly what they needed. The failed attempt, the successful defense of the wagon, would confirm in the minds of any better-hidden professional criminals that the treasure was real. The next attempts would not be so clumsy. One or more – ideally more – attempts would succeed, since the whole point was to get these decorative decoys stolen and divided up by soon-to-be competing parties. The real trick was making sure none of the soldiers got injured or killed in the process.

As the wagon made its way closer to the immediate outskirts of el Tigre's citadel, Jim and Tequila continued to shadow it from the alleys. Now the hour was growing late. The lanterns illuminating el Tigre's squalid party town kept the nearby streets well lit too. But Jim noticed with grim satisfaction that most of the usual partiers were nowhere in sight. What a coincidence. Oh, yes, here was the perfect ambush spot, and Jim spotted the next ambusher. Well, well, well – Appaloosa Al Pintoni. The Tiger _did_ have some interesting recruits after all. This was a good opportunity for Jim to engage in dissent creation. Watching Appaloosa Al move from behind one of the party-camp's tents at the head of his own small crew of henchies, Jim unslung the air-rifle again and loaded it with a very different type of ammunition. He waited until Appaloosa Al broke cover and raised his twin six guns to begin the attack, then fired the wide-dispersion rock salt cartridge (another invention of Arte's) straight at Al's butt. This wasn't Jim's preferred, manly way of attacking a criminal, but the cartridge performed exactly as its maker intended. Upon impact, the non-lethal shell's soft fabric cover split apart and sent dozens of tiny, stinging rock salt pellets straight through the outlaw's pants and deep into the Pintoni posterior. The air-rifle might not have made any sound, but Appaloosa Al sure did, leaping up with a screaming yelp of pain and reflexively firing off his pistols so that the bullets hit not the military caravan, but tents on either side of him and his gang. Judging by the cries that came from within those tents, they'd been occupied by more potential attackers.

Now complete chaos ensued. Appaloosa Al, still dancing and screaming, dropped both of his pistols to grab his pained and bleeding rump with his hands, causing two more bullets to discharge and scatter his band of followers. The other raiders rushing out of the tents ran straight into that crew and a withering crossfire from the wagon's soldier-guardians. The soldiers fell back though, protected by volleys from Enrique and more of their compatriots stationed up on the nearby heights. Even above the sounds of battle, Jim could hear the criminals cursing and shouting accusations at one another. No sooner had Enrique's men retreated from the wagon they'd been guarding when the bewildered and greedy criminals began fighting each other for possession of the sacks of piñatas. Guards in el Tigre's colors boiled out of the Tiger's fortress to join in the fracas. That was Jim's cue to make his next move.

With the bandit-chief's guards running out and weapons being fired or thrown everywhere, no one even noticed the rag-clad beggar who slipped inside el Tigre's front gates and around to a side entrance in the darkness. It was locked, of course, but not guarded, and locks were no problem for Secret Service agent Jim West. He was inside the palace in less than thirty seconds and, as far as he could tell, unobserved. In fact, so many of el Tigre's staff were joining in the spectacle outside that the palace appeared deserted. Instead of being forced to take immediate cover, Jim seemed to have the run of the place. Where was el Tigre though? And more to the point, where were Artemus and Dr. Loveless? And how much time did he have to look for them?

 _C'mon, Arte!_

Jim knew his partner would be smarter than to be caught up in the mess going on outside. He would recognize the booby-trapped piñatas and phony treasure rumors as Jim's handiwork too. But as Jim slipped from room to room, he found no sign of either 'Señor Gonzaleez' or Dr. Loveless. Jim discovered and retrieved several small objects concealed in blobs of explosive putty stuck to ceiling alcoves. Artemus had been here, but he didn't appear to be here now. Nor could Jim find anything like a piece of paper with explanation or instructions on it in any of the globs he located. Either he was off his game, failing to notice some clue his partner had left him, or something had gone very, very wrong. And with Loveless involved, Jim bet he knew which was the likelier possibility.

 _Where are you?_ he thought silently, aware that precious minutes were running out. Then, just as he feared, he heard footfalls in the outside corridor to the current room he was searching that did not sound like they belonged to Arte. The distinctive click-click-click of a woman's heels drew nearer and nearer, the confident steps of someone who belonged here. Jim cursed inwardly. He _was_ off his game. This third story room had only one doorway, no closets or wardrobes, and only one large curtained window overlooking an unsurvivable drop. Jim's quick glance didn't show him anything out there he could fire his grapple hook into either. He was as good as caught and still too smelly to rely on the power of seduction to save him. The woman who clacked boldly into the room wasn't anything like he was expecting though. He recognized her at once in spite of her outfit being radically different from the last one he'd seen her in.

"Kit-" he started to say when his voice was suddenly cut off by a garotte around his throat. Someone had been hiding behind the curtain next to the window and now he was double-ambushed, with Kitten Twitty standing in the doorway and what felt like a boa constrictor in human female form clamped onto him. The wire cutting off his breath through the grip of small but strong hands was matched by equally strong, fishnet-stockinged legs compressing his diaphragm.

"Hoo-ee! Ain't we a stinky one?" Sadie Silver complained, but stayed clutched on fast.

Strangling, Jim tried to scrape her off against the back wall, but it was no use. His attacker might be a woman, but she was physically powerful and ruthless, like a spider with its prey. He looked over to see Kitten Twitty advancing on them, her own meaty fist raised. With spots forming in his vision, the blow and darkness would be coming next.

It didn't come for Jim West. To his surprise, Kitten didn't bring her fist down on his head, but on his attacker's. All at once, the death grip on his throat and midriff ceased, the spider-lady on his back falling to the floor unconscious. Jim gasped for breath, pulling the wire loose from his neck and almost collapsing to his knees himself. His rescuer was staring at him, intense and curious.

"Thanks, Kitten," he croaked, wondering how long she might be on his side _this_ time.

"Why do you call me that?" she asked. "My name is Ghattina." But her gaze on him became even sharper. "I do not recognize you, Señor, but you thought you recognized me, yes?"

Still winded, Jim nodded and took a closer look at the woman asking the question. He prided himself when it came to recognizing and remembering people. She had the face and physique of Kitten Twitty, even the same voice, but now that he could pay closer attention, he noticed there were differences. The body language wasn't the same, for one thing, and the voice, though tonally similar, carried the trace of an accent closer to Tequila's than anything he'd heard out of Loveless' former helper.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, wondering who she might be, really. "I met someone who looks exactly like you. I thought you were her."

However he might have expected her to react, she surprised him again, this time by latching onto both of his arms, lifting and almost crushing him again in her eager pursuit of information.

"Who?" she cried. "Where is she? Where did you see her?" There was no anger or aggression in that voice – only desperate desire. "What is her name? You must tell me!" After a few seconds, she apparently recognized that she was interfering in his ability to speak with the strength of her grip and set him back down on the floor. "Please!" she begged. "I must know!"

Jim shook himself and took a deep breath to recover a second time. He had no desire to endanger the real Kitten Twitty, although that didn't seem to be what this stranger wanted.

"Please," she begged again, almost in a whimper. "If you know where my twin sister is, you must tell me! I have been searching for her for so long!"

Twin sister? That would explain the resemblance. But how should he answer? Her next words decided for him.

"That wicked little man has been teasing me for weeks, but he has told me nothing! And now it is too late!" she lamented. "If you know . . . ."

Well, Jim certainly knew who fit the bill for her description of 'wicked little man' all right. But what did she mean by too late? He didn't like the sound of that at all.

"This wicked little man," Jim asked. "His name wouldn't happen to be Miguelito Loveless, would it?"

"Yes!" As she said it, her expression changed to one of disgust. She almost appeared ready to spit on the floor. "The vile beast!"

 _Still winning hearts and spreading sunshine like he always does_ , Jim thought. "How about a trade of information," he proposed. "Because I'm looking for Loveless. You tell me where I can find him, and I'll tell you what name your sister's going by."

"But you will not find him, Señor." She shook her head, downcast. "My Hector has taken him and the other man, Gonzaleez, to throw into the volcano."

"Vol-?" Jim's head reeled. "Which volcano? How long ago?"

"But you can do nothing!"

 _We'll see about that!_ Jim thought. "Tell me where they are, the name of the volcano! Do you want your sister's name or not?" As he braced himself to make a run for the door, he palmed one of the small round objects he had retrieved from Arte's ceiling glob maneuver.

"Yes!" she said, though she now appeared uncertain, as Kitty had been when helping them against Dr. Loveless. "It is called Ceboruco. It is a mile north."

"Ceboruco," Jim repeated. He vaguely recalled seeing this geographic feature on a map of the area that they'd been given, but he hadn't granted it any significance at the time. Well, a deal was a deal. "The woman I thought you were is named Kitten Twitty. I last saw her in Wilton, Nebraska. She was working for Dr. Loveless, but he doesn't treat his employees well and I don't think she works for him anymore." It was all the truth he had for her. She was still standing between him and the door and he couldn't waste any more time. He threw the small round object onto the floor in front of her and held his breath from the cloud of green smoke that rose out of it. Ghattina slumped toward the floor unconscious. Jim managed to catch her enough to slow her fall so she wouldn't be seriously hurt, but even he staggered under her bulk. _Sorry to do that_ , he thought to her as he ran from the room, _but I've got to save my partner!_

Now frantic, Jim raced down the palace's central staircase unopposed until he almost ran straight into another female, but one he recognized with relief.

"Tequila! Do you know the fastest route to get to Ceboruco?"

"Si, Señor West, every child in Santa Bonita knows this. Why?"

"Because we've got to get there fast!" He grabbed her by the arm and ran with her all the way down the stairs toward the side entrance, hoping they could rustle up a pair of horses that hadn't run off with the sound of explosions and gunfire coming from seemingly every quarter of el Tigre's party town. "I'll explain on the way!"


	9. Hot Stuff

There are worse fates than being burned alive in red hot magma. Artemus Gordon knew this, because he felt he was suffering one of those fates right now. Dr. Miguelito Loveless had not shut up for five seconds from the moment his furious cousin had dragged both men out of the palace, all the way through to their being hauled up a mountain road and placed dangling precariously tied back to back with one another over a steaming volcanic vent. The little man could have given Rosa Montabella lessons in non-stop talking and complaining. Arte looked down almost longingly at the steaming, bubbling lava nearly a hundred feet below. The volcano, if given the chance, would be quick and relatively merciful in killing him. Having to listen to Loveless' endless stream of pomposity, criticism and venom, on the other hand . . . .

Still, it could have been worse. If Arte was destined to meet his end in the fiery depths of a Central American caldera, he'd rather take Loveless down with him than have it be his best friend who died strapped to his back. It was devastating to think that President Grant might die as well back in America, but Arte maintained hope against hope that Jim was still alive, and that Jim might even find a way to rescue them from their current situation. Growing weaker and dizzier from the heat and foul air, however, it was difficult to be an optimist. Arte was struggling not to nod off into a hyperthermia-induced unconsciousness when Loveless, flexing his little shoulders as much as their ropes would allow, jabbed Arte in the blade of one of his own.

"And this is another fine mess the two of you have gotten me into, Gordon!"

As if any of this was Artemus or Jim's fault!

" _Us_?" Arte protested at the unfairness of it all.

"You and your late partner Mr. West! The two of you are always causing me some sort of trouble instead of recognizing me and my work for the genius it represents!" Loveless shifted again, causing the pair of them to swing around slowly on the sturdy rope holding them in their present space, then swing back the same way. "As if that wasn't bad enough, Mr. West then has the profound lack of consideration to die without me being responsible! The nerve of that man!"

"Nerve," Arte grumbled. "You know, I happen to think the report of Jim's death, like the previous reports of yours, has been greatly exaggerated." Arte did have some idea as to why Loveless' trained raven might have been fooled into thinking so. He might have discussed scientific shop concerning the carrion-based cologne he had doused his partner in, but why trade secrets with the enemy even if this was the end for both of them? He wasn't going to waste the opportunity to get a word in edge-wise while Loveless had already talked himself hoarse though. "Where we are right now is no one's fault but your own! Jim and I might not always have had perfect relationships with our own families, but at least we never drove any of our relatives to murder us!"

"Will you not refer to that . . . that _creature_ as a relative of mine?" Loveless screeched, finding his voice again enough to make Arte wince. "My grandfather knew precisely what he was doing when he pruned a verminous branch from our family tree! That muscle-headed brute is no relative of mine! He's just an egomaniacal, obsessive, self-centered criminal!"

"And of course the two of you are nothing alike," Arte quipped.

Loveless couldn't see the expression on Artemus' face as he said it, but the tone of voice gave even him pause.

"Sarcasm ill becomes you, Mr. Gordon," the doctor sniffed at last.

 _This whole damn assignment ill becomes me!_ Arte thought as he groaned to himself and writhed a little in discomfort. Loveless' legs didn't hang down nearly as far as his own, and every so often, the active volcanic vent would send up a spark or burning crumb of ash that Arte could only try to dodge in a very limited fashion. He'd already gotten several tiny pinprick burns on his legs and one or two higher up his body. Sooner or later, the volcano would send up something larger that might set either prisoner or the rope they were dangling from ablaze, and that would be it. This was to be Hector el Tigre's revenge for all the insults he had suffered – a death on the painful and extra well-done side. Arte looked up to see the wooden support beam anchoring the rope that held them over the vent. No guarantee that wouldn't catch fire either. From the char-surfaced beam, several iron hooks descended which had once held other ropes, other prisoners. Burnt strands of hemp on those hooks were all that remained. It was an impressive and no doubt effective method for keeping el Tigre's foot soldiers in line. Wedged into a massive turning wheel, the beam was so large and heavy that only the Tiger himself could move it back and forth to be loaded up with a new batch of people-poblanos to roast over the flames far below. However Arte imagined death could come for him someday, he'd never imagined this. Slow cooked or fast flambéed with his worst enemy in the world tied to his back in a foreign country after being ratted out by a bird that could talk! The heat and sulfurous air must be getting to him. In spite of his discomfort and the lack of anything humorous about their surroundings, he had to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.

"You think this is _funny_ , Mr. Gordon?" Loveless gasped.

"Well, part of it is," Arte chuckled. "You know what's the really funniest thing about it though?" he asked, knowing Loveless couldn't answer. "The fact of the matter is," he wheezed, desperately wishing for cleaner air, "Jim and I weren't sent down here by our government to foil any of your latest schemes. We were sent here to rescue you!"

"Oh, ha ha, very droll, Mr. Gordon," Loveless remarked. "Do you really believe this is an appropriate time for one of your useless and ridiculous jests?"

"It happens to be the truth!"

Loveless snorted.

"Come, come, now, Mr. Gordon! Surely you can do better than that! Do you honestly expect me to believe for one second that even your parliament of fools in Washington would be so irrational, so nonsensical and . . . and ludicrous as to send you two – out of all the people in the world they could choose – to be my supposed _saviors_ from my alleged cousin's less than gracious hospitality?"

"Cross my heart and hope to, uh . . . ." Arte's voice trailed off as he looked down at the red hot lava glowing in the gloom. "Well, we _are_ the best."

As futile as the attempt was, Loveless tried to turn his head around far enough to get a look at the expression on his fellow prisoner's face. It only had the effect of making them swing back and forth again. But Arte had managed to accomplish the near impossible. Loveless remained quiet for nearly a full minute thinking about this.

"You're serious," the little wizard said next, stunned. "You are actually serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life," Arte told him, no longer finding anything to laugh at in the very real deadly danger they were in.

"James West and Artemus Gordon, my mortal enemies, the pestilential, obstructive, tampering meddlers who have made my every goal a nightmare of frustration and unrealized victories, have been hand-picked by their commanding officials to _rescue_ me?"

"We thought it was a little unorthodox too," Arte shrugged, "but-"

Arte found his reply cut off as the doctor jerked in his ropes and began laughing so hard that it sent both them and their anchor-tie vibrating all the way up to the wooden beam.

"Oh, I take it back!" Loveless roared. "This is the cream of the jest, truly!" He kicked and twisted and giggled with his usual mixture of glee and madness. "Just when I think I have witnessed every last scrap of folly and stupidity that mankind is capable of engaging in, I am proved wrong once again! Mr. Gordon, you were right to laugh. Oh!" he gasped, trying to catch his breath. "This is the greatest joke of them all! And it has been played on me! No – on _us_!"

 _Well, he who laughs last, laughs best, they say . . . ._ As the shaking caused by Loveless' fit of hysterical humor stopped, Arte looked back up at the wooden support beam, and then back down at the magma awaiting them. He narrowly managed to jerk himself out of the way of another large, burning piece of ash that the volcano had coughed up at them, then began to do a bit of coughing himself. _Is this how it ends?_ He hoped not, but it sure seemed like it. And once he and Loveless burned, there wouldn't even be bodies left to bury.

The heat. The unbearable heat.

He had no choice but to bear it now.

 _Jim, wherever you are, please hurry! Because I don't know how much more of this I can take . . . ._


	10. Kung Fu Fighting

A mile had never seemed so far away, even on horseback. Jim was grateful for Tequila's intimate knowledge of the area – he couldn't have found in the dark the trails leading up to the caldera nearly as quickly as she did. But in his haste to save his friend, Jim had overlooked one major fact: the fastest route for him and his escort to get up the volcano was also the fastest, most obvious route for Hector el Tigre to take back down. The Tiger and the select pair of followers he'd brought with him on this deadly errand were doing just that as Jim and Tequila rounded a blind curve so fast that the horses of both parties started to buck and shy. It was a narrow path they were on, with no fencing, no margin to prevent anyone or anything from going over the edge. Small pebbles and gravel skittered under the horses' hooves, making the danger even more real. But that wasn't the danger Jim worried most about right now. His heart sank as he saw Hector and his men leading back a fourth, riderless horse.

He was too late.

A spear of grief he had not felt since his partner's seeming death at the hands of the Pistoleros ran him through for a second time. As did the same imperative that had motivated him back then:

Someone had murdered Artemus Gordon – _and that someone was going to pay!_

In spite of the darkness, el Tigre's men could see the look on Jim's face and had sense enough to try backing their horses up, away from the dangerous stranger blocking their path. Hector el Tigre made no such maneuver. The big man with the hated face of a different enemy drew his own horse closer and sneered at the impertinent beggar in his way.

"Aside, fool," the Tiger commanded.

"No."

"Jim . . . ." Tequila whispered, using his first name once more. He ignored her and sat rigid where he was as his horse hoofed the ground nervously.

"You are eager to die, eh?" el Tigre grumbled. "Eager for a quick death or a slow one? Now is not a good time to annoy me."

Jim narrowed his eyes and stood his ground in stony silence.

"Perhaps you have not heard," Hector said. "I have many ways to kill a man, and little patience for fools."

Behind el Tigre, one of his helpers attempted to draw a gun. Jim drew his pistol and shot the weapon out of the man's hand so fast that the henchman didn't even realize what had happened, and made a trigger pulling motion in empty air. Then the unfortunate looked down at the hole going clear through his hand and slid from his horse as he fainted dead away.

"So, you are a fast fool at least!" Hector laughed. "And now I think I recognize you from the photo I have seen! You are the one they call West!"

Jim gave a single nod of his head.

"Well, you are lively for a dead man, Señor West," Hector grinned.

"So are you."

Hector stopped grinning.

"Evidently you have not heard enough about me, Señor West." Hector dismounted from his horse and glared back at the man before him. "It is easy for a man to be brave when he is holding a gun-"

Jim heard a startled gasp from Tequila and spared a glance behind him. A third hench-person they had not seen or heard had leapt from behind a rock on the steep slope onto Tequila's horse and was now holding a knife at her throat.

"- but it is not so easy to face a man in hand-to-hand combat! Not so easy without the guns, eh?" Hector removed his own gun belt and tossed it aside. He signaled for the henchman behind him to discard his. As long as one of his assistants held a hostage, it was plain he wasn't worried about Jim's gun either. The strongman took off his shirt to reveal a scarred, hairy and muscular chest. He gestured for Jim to do the same.

Less than a minute later, the two men, now bare-chested, disarmed and grim-faced stood opposite one another, poised for hand-to-hand combat along the narrow mountain road. Hector's wounded henchman, along with his companion, had already been sent back down the path toward Santa Bonita. Only four horses, plus Tequila and her knife-wielding captor remained to watch the martial arts duel that was about to take place.

"Now this – _this!_ – will be a fair combat, Señor West!" Hector crowed, advancing on his intended victim.

Hector could talk big – he was big. He was a giant compared to the smaller man, and no honest person seeing the two warriors together would have considered it a fair fight. That didn't matter to James West. He had taken on bullies, braggarts, boxers and other men bigger than himself and licked every one of them. He had an icy cold fury steeling him inside. Here was his best friend's killer. Here was the criminal who had murdered his partner. The man who deserved death. If Hector could have seen the determination that lurked behind those handsome, rigid features, he would have been as eager to escape back to Santa Bonita as his men. But Hector el Tigre was nothing if not confident. He crab-walked sideways to come up on West, since the path didn't give either of them room to circle.

"You will wish you had known better, Señor West! You have not heard what I am capable of doing to a man with my bare hands! How I have torn my opponents limb from limb!"

Jim felt the scratchy rock wall of the volcano against his back.

"What I have heard," he said, "is that Hector el Tigre is a disinherited, yellow-bellied, thieving coward who doesn't have the honor of a dead tree sloth."

Jim's words had the effect he desired. If Hector hadn't yet been seeing red before, his eyes were blazing pure crimson back at him now. Without thinking, he threw a fast punch that Jim ducked, so that el Tigre's fist pounded itself into the rock instead of the Secret Service agent's head. The big man howled, but only briefly, and Jim got a flying kick into his midriff before Hector could recover. It wasn't enough to bring his opponent down, or even come close, but it was clear that in this fight Jim West had landed the first blow. The Tiger knew it, and gave Jim a stare of pure hatred that was a match for Jim's own.

"What's the matter?" Jim taunted. "Can't handle anyone bigger than a midget?"

Again, Hector let his temper get the better of him. He lunged forward again so fast that when Jim leaped out of his way, the Tiger's momentum nearly carried him over the side of the cliff. Only deliberately dropping to the ground and clutching against the edge saved him from a possibly fatal fall. Jim, not averse to kicking a man while he was down, got in another two blows. But now Jim's own confidence and equipment betrayed him. As he attempted another flying kick, Hector was fast enough to grab him by the bootheel – and the bootheel popped off in the Tiger's hand. Jim tried to regain his balance but couldn't with his footwear now so uneven and took a fall onto the path himself. Hector, tossing aside the bootheel, did not even bother to see the object it concealed, but Tequila and the knifeman did when a small orb popped out of it and smacked against the ground, producing a thick white cloud of smoke. Tequila's horse bucked in panic and the two riders in its saddle began wrestling for the knife.

Jim, more distracted by this than his opponent, didn't see Hector's fist coming at him in time. He managed to roll with the glancing punch as he'd been trained, but even so, the blow sent him flying. He staggered back groggily and Hector managed to punch him in the gut. Again, Jim's war-and-Denver-conditioned reflexes saved him from the worst, with his rock-hard abs protecting him, but his momentum was his undoing. He crashed up against the volcano wall and barely managed to avoid a third impact from those fists. Temporarily stunned, he had no countering move as Hector grabbed Jim's upper arms in melon-sized hands and squeezed hard in preparation of tearing Jim limb-from-limb just as he'd promised.

"And now, Señor West," el Tigre gloated, "it is I, Hector, and not my miserable little excuse of a cousin who will be the one to kill you! And once I have ripped off your head, I will bring it to him and to your sneaky compadre so they can see it and despair more before they die!"

The words stunned Jim even more than Hector el Tigre's punches had.

"They're . . . still alive?"

He began to feel a different sort of determination flooding into him stronger than the one that had filled him only moments ago. He braced his legs for the next move he was about to attempt, and that was when Hector el Tigre made the most serious mistake of all.

He laughed at Jim West.

That hated face. The face that had laughed at Jim West so many times before in such infuriating circumstances. The tone of the laugh was deeper, but the look, the manner, the chortled smugness was exactly the same. Only, Hector el Tigre was no fragile midget that Jim had to hold himself back from hurting.

A fair fight, Hector had called it.

He didn't know how right he was!

In some of his darkest moments, James West had fantasized about smashing that same face into a bloody pulp. Now it was time to live the dream.

With a flexibility that only contortionists or professional gymnasts could match, Jim drove both of his knees up into el Tigre's chuckling chin. Before the big man could rebound, Jim latched his lower arms onto the one clamped on him and followed the knee strike up with a full, hard, booted kick to the jaw that sent blood and a couple of Hector's teeth flying. The larger man's hands lost their grip and the Tiger learned that the most dangerous part of riding a Jim West is trying to get back off. The Secret Service agent's fists flew rapid fire like steam-driven pistons into el Tigre's nose, eyes and mouth. The same berserker fury that had allowed Jim to lick six other men at a time by himself was concentrated on a single foe who had the features of his worst enemy. Facial bones broke, more teeth flew as Hector stumbled back from an onslaught like none he had experienced before. The punches were followed up with another flying kick that sent Hector el Tigre perilously close to the edge overlooking the precipice. Bleeding, swollen eyes tried to open wide as the big man realized his danger, loose gravel causing his feet to slip. In spite of Jim's rage, Hector might have saved himself even then with a plea for mercy. But that was not the Tiger's way. Instead, he spat out more blood, glaring with a rage of his own as he started to fall and shouting out a single word filled with unimaginable hate:

" **YOU!** "

His long reach allowed him to grab at Jim's leg by the ankle, pulling the agent toward the edge with him. Rather than try to stop his own death, he meant to take his enemy to the grave with him. With nothing to grab onto for support, Jim could only try to pry el Tigre's iron-strong fingers loose. It was as futile as prying at a vise. Jim tried to dig into the trail with his heels, but just one of his boots still had one, and he began to slide closer to the fatal brink along with Hector.

All at once, el Tigre cried out in pain and the hand clutching at Jim's leg popped open. Jim, scrambling back fast and saw the reason – the knife handle vibrating in Hector's bicep, the blade sticking deep in muscle tissue. With one last gasp of effort, Hector el Tigre tried to gain a firm grip on the cliff edge and prevent his plunge, but his grasp was too strong for the weak soil. The edge crumbled in his fingers and he went down with one last defiant howl in the dark. The fight was over.

Jim didn't need to guess where the thrown knife had come from. As he got up and turned around, Tequila was standing there, wide-eyed and shaking, right arm still held out from where she had released the blade and let it fly. The man who had temporarily taken her hostage was already scampering down the path to the village, defeated by Señorita Ruiseñor. Acting purely on instinct, Jim took her in his arms and pulled her close to comfort her and ease her shaking.

"You saved my life," he whispered. "Thank you."

Then he remembered Arte's putrid potion and how it had disgusted her. He released her at once, horrified at having forced her into contact with him and that stench. To his surprise, she pulled him closer again and gratefully returned his embrace.

"You do not smell bad anymore, Señ . . . Jim."

Astonished, Jim sniffed the air deeply. There was sulfur in it from the volcano, that was for sure. But on his own skin he smelled nothing except the usual sweat of exertion.

"Well what do you know . . . ." he mumbled.

"And now we must save your friend Señor Gordon and the little man, yes?" she asked.

"Yes!" Jim almost shouted as he jerked back a second time.

Together they remounted their horses and continued the ascent up the trail, only to have the horses balk and come to an intractable halt still short of the summit. Jim noticed that the dirt and sand was much finer up here, and the trail showed no horse hoof marks past this point, only the footprints of el Tigre and his men. If Jim had been riding Blackjack, he'd have bet money he could get his loyal stallion to carry him even beyond this barrier where other steeds feared to tread. But Blackjack was still back on board the Wanderer. He and Tequila had no choice but to dismount too and follow the other tracks on foot. The air was hot at these heights and more and more foul with the scent of the volcano's exhalations. But Artemus and Dr. Loveless were still alive somewhere up here. They had to be. And Jim had to find them. He felt like swearing as the ground became harder and sharper this close to the top, and little eddies of air erased the footprints he'd been following.

"ARTE!" Jim called out, praying that his partner was capable of responding. "ARTE!"

"Jim!" Tequila cried, discovering a gap in between two huge lumps of lava where dust had pooled and footprints were still visible. "This way!"

As they made their way through the gap and Jim called out again, he thought he heard Artemus answer in response. He glanced at Tequila nodding – she'd heard the sound too. They raced ahead in mists and darkness only to almost go over another cliff edge. Pulling up short barely in time to prevent the fall, they gazed out on a nightmarish scene. Artemus and Dr. Loveless, tied back to back in one neat bundle, were dangling way out over the boundary of the precipice, suspended from a great wooden beam like a couple of fish strung up over a smoking fire. As the rope twisted around slowly, Jim saw his sweat-drenched partner look up at him and smile weakly.

"What kept you?" Arte asked.


	11. Rock and Roll to the Rescue

_I can see you, buddy, but how do I get to you?_

James West's initial relief at finding his missing partner and Dr. Loveless still alive had faded fast at the realization of how precarious their position was. He wasn't even sure how they'd been set out on the end of that hook-and-beam arrangement to begin with. He'd seen a lot of complex traps before – hell, _experienced_ them, but this one took the cake – or the smoked sausage to use a more apt metaphor. Jim and Tequila had made their way up a narrow path to where the wooden beam attached to what appeared to be a turning lever. They'd tried with all their might to get it to budge, but it hadn't worked. What's more, Jim noticed, the heavy beam had none too secure an attachment. It might not survive any more attempts to turn it. He saw some very ominous-looking cracks at the beam's base. Too-long exposure to the volcano's emissions and dry heat had rendered even this thickest piece of wood brittle. It looked like it wouldn't support Jim's added bulk if he tried to climb out onto it, even if he was capable of pull-lifting Arte and Loveless' combined weight – which he wasn't sure at this point he was.

"Hey, Jim," Arte called out to him. Jim hadn't told him how bad the situation was, but his partner must have known by the fact that their rescue wasn't accomplished yet.

"Yeah, Arte?" Jim's heart lurched again at his best friend's next words.

"If I don't make it," Arte called, "will you tell my mother it was just a freak accident and it was over instantly? She'll know it's a lie, but she'll be grateful anyway."

"Don't give up on me yet!" Jim yelled back. "You still owe me five bucks from last Friday's poker game, remember?"

"You know, I was hoping you'd forgotten about that," Arte chuckled.

Jim felt like hitting something in his frustration. Damn it, he had never failed a mission before and he was not going to start now – not with Artemus' life on the line, literally.

On the line . . . .

There had to be a way to get Arte and Loveless anchored to some safer line or perch than what they were attached to now, and disconnected from the beam which, if it cracked and fell, would pull the bound men down into the glowing hot vent of lava with it. But how? Jim and Tequila had brought one long rope with them that had been with the horses. Jim still had his pistol-grapple hook and its cable, but that hardly seemed enough. The only thing he could see to fire the hook into was Dr. Loveless, and tempting as that thought was, they really did need him alive. Plus the little wizard probably wasn't a strong enough anchor.

 _Got to be a way, got to be a way . . . ._

Jim felt around the pockets of the shirt he'd retrieved to see if any of the small gadgets Arte had left for him might be in any way helpful. Explosive putty was definitely _not_ called for in this situation. Likewise lockpicks, fuses or smoke bombs. And the only other chemical compound Arte had included in Jim's stash – kept carefully separate from the explosive stuff – was a big glob of his chemical 'leech,' the sticky putty that could hold a man's full weight for ten seconds on contact with just about anything.

"I don't suppose I get to have a say in whether I am rescued by either one of you?" Loveless complained.

"No!" Jim and Arte replied in unison, Jim thinking Loveless was a different sort of leech all right.

"And the least you can do, Mr. Gordon," Loveless grumbled, "is stop moving us around like that! I'm a very sensitive individual, you know, and I'm already dizzy from all this swinging."

"You're tempting me to do it some more," Arte muttered.

Jim saw the two of them twisting and swaying in the hot air currents. He hoped any gyrations wouldn't worsen the cracking at the beam's base. But feeling the lump of chemical leech in his pocket began to give him the germ of an idea . . . .

"Jim, look!" Tequila cried.

Jim turned around to see what she was pointing to – their friend Enrique Leon coming up to join them with three of his men. The cavalry had never looked so good.

"You've done it, my friend!" Enrique grinned. "You have saved Santa Bonita from the grip of the Tiger!"

He and his soldiers started to congratulate Jim and hold out their hands to shake his, but their cheery mood sobered as Jim pointed out the dangling, bound men, the cracks in the wooden beam, and explained the situation. Enrique's group had brought more ropes with them, and their rifles. Seeing these, Jim began to have hope again, and asked them about their roping and sharpshooting skills. Luckily, their small party had both. Jim took out the blob of chemical leech and explained the plan that was forming in his head. Enrique's joyous expression turned grim.

"That sounds . . . dangerous, my friend."

"If you've got any better ideas, I'm all ears," Jim said. "Believe me!" Enrique was right – it _was_ dangerous, for Arte, Loveless and Jim himself, and one chance might be all they could get. But Enrique was shaking his head, and Jim became even more determined as he heard a small cry of pain from his partner. Another glowing ash spark had landed on Arte, burning a small hole in his clothing and scorching the man himself, though not setting him ablaze. Time was running out. For this maneuver to have any chance at all of succeeding, it needed Arte's efforts as well as Jim's.

 _I'm going to save you, partner!_

While Enrique's men discussed Jim's plan and got themselves into position, Jim began measuring out his own rope and making his way toward a particular rocky outcropping he'd spotted. As he reached it, he and Tequila tested its solidity, then began tying one end of the rope firmly around the outcrop and the other around Jim's waist. Below, lower than the base of the wooden beam, two of Enrique's men were fashioning lariats as Enrique and his third man prepared their rifles and sighted them at some point above Arte's and Loveless' heads. Arte, teeth still clenched from discomfort, watched all these preparations, but said nothing, no doubt trying to figure out what they were up to without distracting them. Loveless, of course, could be counted on to show no such consideration.

"No, no, no!" the little villain squealed. "I don't want to be rescued by _him_! I'd rather be thrown to the volcano!"

Arte sighed.

"Just think of it as another one of your plans being foiled by us again," Arte whispered. "I'm sure that ought to make it a much more familiar experience!" He wished he could see the expression on their archenemy's face, wondering if it was any match for the wordless exhalation of sheer frustration and anger he heard coming out of ol' Miguelito.

Jim, up on the outcropping, couldn't hear all of that conversation, but from the looks on the conversants' faces, he could imagine it. He checked down with Enrique and the others, who all signaled their own readiness. Everyone was in position.

Almost everyone.

"Hey, Arte!" Jim called down.

"Yes?"

"You remember using a swing when you were a kid? How you pump your legs to make the swing move back and forth?"

"Uh, yeah," Arte frowned. He still had no way of knowing all of what Jim hoped to accomplish, and under the circumstances it might be better that way, Jim thought. Jim was edgy enough for both of them. He'd calculated the timing and trajectories as best he could, and hoped he'd done a good enough job.

 _Because I sure as hell don't want to lie to your mother!_

"Listen," he shouted. "I'm going to be coming down there myself, and I'm going to try to swing toward you as hard as I can. I need you to swing toward me – as gently as you can! We need to get close enough that I can grab onto you, okay?"

"You want us to crash into each other?"

"If that's what it takes," Jim told him.

"Uh, is there some reason you need me to swing as _gently_ as I can?"

"Yes." _And you really don't want to know what it is._

Arte didn't need to be told that. The two men had known each other long enough to tell what one another was thinking most of the time. Arte understood what wasn't being communicated here, and why. He was trying to be as brave as he could and gave his partner a slight smile and a nod, then stretched out his cramped legs and got ready to do his part.

"Right," he called up to Jim.

Tequila reached out to Jim as he got ready to climb down with the rope attached and kissed him.

"Para la suerte,"1 she said.

"Thanks," Jim answered back, then began what he hoped wouldn't be the last daring feat he ever attempted. He had a less dangerous position than the other two, but if the beam fell into the volcano while all three of them were briefly attached, it would take an extra victim down with it. That would no doubt please Dr. Loveless for the final seconds of his hate-filled life, but Jim had no intention of pleasing him. Carefully, he lowered himself down to what he had estimated would be the right depth. With a nod to his partner, he began pumping his legs back and forth, arching and swinging his entire body like a circus aerialist. Across the gap Arte was trying to do the same, but with noticeably less energy. It wasn't all a concern for gracefulness or gentle movement. Jim had felt the radical increase in temperature surrounding him as soon as he'd gotten level with the other two, and he was amazed that his partner hadn't baked already. He could see the strain on Arte's face as the other man struggled to find the energy to swing using only his legs, while the hostile person tied to his back did nothing to try to help.

 _C'mon, buddy, you can do it!_

One moment of solid contact was all they needed. One moment and ten seconds . . . .

And then Jim started to hear the sound he had dreaded. The sound of cracking. He didn't know if Arte could hear it too, or if he'd know what it was. Jim redoubled his own efforts, rocking back and forth, rolling forward, almost somersaulting on the backswing, swinging within inches of being able to grab onto the other two as they arced toward one another. He had the chemical leech ready in his hand.

"Just a little more, partner!" he shouted. "We're almost there!"

Artemus Gordon looked red and ready to pass out, but in spite of that, he was managing to arc a little bit higher with each swing, coming closer and closer and . . . .

 _Now!_

The moment Jim had been hoping for came. The two men came within arm's reach of one another, and though Arte couldn't reach at all with his arms tied behind him, Jim could. He grabbed his partner, slapping the chemical leech onto his chest in the process, and then pulled Arte and Loveless into a desperate bear hug, sticking the three of them together for what he prayed would be just long enough. Now it was all up to Enrique's squad.

Ten seconds. They had ten seconds . . . .

If that . . . .

With a ponderous creaking, the wooden beam began to list toward the gaping vent. Now rifle fire joined the noise, as Enrique and the other rifleman fired at the rope holding the three men to the beam. It was a thick rope – not to be frayed with one shot. But they were true marksmen, and with a second volley, that connection came apart just as another pair of ropes grabbed the three from below. Jim felt first one lariat loop, then another, rise up past their legs and pull tight, tying them together in one neat bundle. Still holding onto Arte as hard as he could, knowing that the leech's peculiar clinging ability might give way at any second, he'd never been so glad to be lassoed in all his life.

Just in the nick of time. The great wooden beam, which they were now separated and anchored away from at an angle by three separate ropes, split with a mighty final crack and took the dive into hot magma that el Tigre had intended for his victims. It missed all three as it fell, but it was a close enough call that even Loveless was silent, watching as it splashed down and caught fire a hundred feet below. That just made things hotter, but it was a degree of hot they could survive as Enrique and the other rifleman raced up to where Tequila was waiting, untied the first rope, and began lowering Jim, Arte and Loveless slowly enough so that the men holding onto the lassoes down below could start hauling them in to safety.

"Uhhh . . . ." Arte, mouth gaping, looked up at the splintered remains of the wooden beam's base, and then back toward the huge, dark chunk of wood already vanishing in pool of flame far below.

" _That's_ why," Jim told him.

"Oh. I'm so glad you didn't tell me," Arte said tremulously, then looked at Jim and must have realized the risk he'd been taking to pull this rescue off. "You're crazy, you know that?"

"Hey, five bucks is five bucks," Jim laughed. "You're just lucky I don't still smell like that 'special perfume' of yours!"

"Ah, yes," Arte agreed. "Eau de cadavre! Powerful stuff, but very unstable. It dissolves instantly on contact with human sweat."

So _that_ was how it had worn off so suddenly all at once.

"Of course, it may be lucky you're the cool-as-a-cucumber type," Arte added. "I'll explain later, unless the good doctor would care to elaborate on his study of ravens?"

The good doctor did not care to elaborate, for a change. It was hard for Jim even to see him, with Artemus sandwiched between the two of them, but from what he could see, Loveless was deliberately keeping his mouth pursed shut in an expression of profound fury and indignation. He was Not On Speaking Terms with them and doing his best to let them know that during the long, hot minutes it took Tequila, Enrique and his men to haul the roped trio to safety. Either that or Loveless had finally managed to wear out his voice completely, Arte mumbled cheerfully to Jim.

Dawn was just starting to appear on the horizon as the three men were brought back on solid ground to safety. As the soldiers untied Jim and Arte, Enrique and Tequila joined them, and the beauteous Ruiseñor gazed at Jim in admiration and astonishment.

"You really _are_ capable of working miracles!"

"Oh, he's no saint," Arte rasped. "But he _is_ pretty amazing – and a very, very good friend." With hands still numb from being tied up for so long, he tried to give his partner a salute, genuine gratitude in those tired eyes. "Thanks, Jim."

"And you managed to find Dr. Loveless, I see," Jim said. While Enrique's men helped Arte to sit up and gave him water from one of their canteens to drink, the malicious midget was also offered water – but kept bound hand and foot for the moment. He drank from the proffered canteen even more greedily than Arte had, but was still red-faced and evidently not all from the heat.

"Well?" Loveless demanded, looking up at his rescuer with an expression that showed something other than gratitude. "Aren't you going to untie me too?"

"If I do that," Jim said, crouching down to look his nemesis right in the eye, "you're going to attempt to escape at the first opportunity so you can plot to take over the world, probably with some cockamamie plan for getting revenge on me first, am I right?"

Loveless considered these words while taking another deep swig of water.

"A fair assessment," he conceded after swallowing. "However, my plan would be brilliant and not – to use your phrase – cockamamie at all."

"So – no." Jim answered.

In fact, Jim had no intention of entrusting anyone but himself for the responsibility of transporting Loveless back to the Wanderer. With some help from Enrique and Tequila, he had Loveless further constrained by being stuffed into one of the soldier's emptied out backpacks with only his head protruding, then fastened onto Jim's own back like an enraged papoose.

"Ready to go, Arte?" Jim said, swinging around as Enrique helped Artemus up from the ground.

"Am I ever!" his partner exclaimed.

"Gently! You – you clumsy fool!" Loveless complained, as if Jim were his servant sedan chair-bearer. "As I said once before, all the swinging out there has made me dizzy. Now watch what you're doing!"

Jim, of course, swung around sharply toward Tequila and looked at her as if hearing a distant birdcall.

"Did you say something?" he asked, a puckish smile on his face as Loveless gasped in frustrated fury.

Tequila shook her head, trying hard not laugh as Jim turned just as sharply the other way toward his partner.

"You, Arte?" Jim asked.

"Not me," Arte chuckled and shrugged.

"You're both enjoying this, aren't you?" Loveless accused.

Jim's only answer was a wicked grin that the little doctor couldn't possibly see. Then, in spite of his fatigue, aches and the extra weight on his shoulders, James West skipped merrily all the way back to where the horses were waiting.

1 "For luck."


	12. Peace Train

From the look of things, the village of Santa Bonita, or rather el Tigre's portion of it, had seen better days – or possibly even better decades. The impressive palace was still for the most part intact, with only several windows broken and a bit of singed woodwork here or there. The same could not be said for the wretched hovels of hired scum and villainy that had surrounded the palace's exterior grounds. The huts, tents and stolen slums that had made up the Tiger's party town were now piles of rubble and in some cases very levelled rubble at that. The sturdier building where Hector must have been keeping some sort of ammunition stores had been rendered into a smoking crater. The members of Colonel Enrique Leon's battalion who had not participated in the volcano vent rescue were rounding up what lawbreakers remained alive, and piling their transport wagon with the corpses or miscellaneous body parts of criminals who would be answering to a different court of justice. There had been no honor among these thieves. Jim didn't know whether to feel glad or not that Sadie Silver was still among the living, though judging by her limp and bandaged hands as she was led away, it would be a while before she was up for slaying anybody, in a saloon or anywhere else. He hoped that Ghattina had escaped unharmed, though he was still concerned with what her aim might be in hunting for Kitten Twitty. Nothing malevolent, Jim wanted to believe. Kitten might have been working for Loveless as another one of his innocent dupes, but she had suffered enough in her lifetime, he thought. But beyond the ruins of party town and the scene of so much bloodshed, the original civilian section of the village – the home to Tequila and so many others – appeared largely undamaged. Many of the townsfolk were already coming out of their homes to celebrate and laud their liberators.

"My, my, James – an impressive job!" Arte commented, viewing the spectacle. In spite of his ordeal, he'd begun to recover and return to his old self as soon as he'd been rehydrated and they'd left the searing hot heights behind. He and Jim had been swapping tales all the way back down the mountain trail, in part to spare themselves more of Loveless' diatribes and endless catalog of complaints. They'd be stuck on a too-small train with him soon enough.

"All I did was make up the piñatas and shoot Appaloosa Al's butt full of rock salt," Jim sighed. "They managed the rest by themselves."

"Nevertheless, a work of inspired genius!" Arte exclaimed. "And that clever method you came up with to save us from the volcano too! Brilliant work! Wouldn't you say so, Dr. Loveless?"

The party being addressed was doing his very best to pretend not to hear the discussion, but it was clear from his sour and appalled look that he had heard plenty.

"Careful, Arte," Jim said. "I think this town has seen enough explosions for one day."

"Well, I'm afraid I wasn't too much help after that confounded bird ratted me out," Arte admitted. He looked up and pointed to a black speck in the sky that was coming toward them. "And speaking of the devil . . . ."

The pet raven was equipped with good eyesight as well as scenting ability, and it knew its master's face, even if the rest of Dr. Loveless wasn't visible from within the backpack. It slowed as it flew within close range of them, as if confused by Loveless' lack of visible shoulders to land on. Jim raised his hands to protect his head and face, wishing he'd thought to put a gag in Miguelito's mouth, lest he issue some sort of command for it to attack. But before Loveless could do so, Arte, snapping up a bandana he'd been wearing, grabbed the startled animal out of the air by its legs and held it at enough of a distance that it couldn't easily peck him with its beak either.

"Edgar, you and I have a score to settle!" Artemus growled. But he didn't reach for the gun at his belt. Instead, he thumbed the palm-side catch of the ring he was wearing and jammed his fist right up against one of the nostrils on the bird's beak, causing the last of his concentrated stench oil to go right where it could do its worst damage. Ravens might be accustomed, and even drawn to, carrion, but the smell at this sudden, sharp intensity was too much for Loveless' 'flying bloodhound.' The bird gave a horrified, panicked squawk as Arte released it, and the raven flew off, zig-zagging, diving, banking and flying in circles before it disappeared again, trying to fly away from its own beak. "I hate to be cruel to animals." Arte shook his head as they watched it vanish, to its owner's mute astonishment. "But it was either that or destroy the poor thing." He gave Loveless a sharp look. "It isn't the bird's fault for doing as it was trained. Hopefully it won't ever want to sniff us out again."

"Or be able to," Jim shuddered, feeling a sudden pang of sympathy for the raven.

Loveless, finally growing hoarse, let loose with a rasping stream of invective in some exotic foreign language that even Arte didn't understand. The words needed no translation to make their intent clear. Jim and Arte exchanged cautious glances. This adventure was wrapping up for Santa Bonita, but not for them. Not yet.

Tequila, Enrique and his handpicked trio rode with the two Secret Service agents back to where the Wanderer was waiting for them. Loveless, still looking ready to spit nails, wasn't about to make any pleasant farewells himself, but that didn't stop his present company. Tequila made hers in the form of a slow, romantic kiss for Jim that he returned with enthusiasm.

"Goodbye, Jim West," she said as she reluctantly pulled away, running a hand through his already-ruffled hair. "You have saved my village, and for that I will be forever grateful."

Artemus cleared his throat loudly.

"You know," he coughed, giving her a puppy-eyed expression, "I, uh, _did_ help a little."

Tequila turned toward him with her blazing white smile and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, drawing back fast and nodding to him, to his disappointment.

"Thank you also, Señor Gordon," she said. "Only-"

"Only what?" he asked. "And call me Artemus – please!"

Tequila's gorgeous, coffee-colored complexion darkened slightly with a blush.

"It is rude of me to mention, Señ . . . Ar-tem-us." She cast her eyes down at the ground rather than look at him directly. "You and Dr. Loveless were in the volcano fumes for some time. Much longer than Jim."

Arte nodded. She looked up at him again and then over to the Wanderer.

"On your train," she asked, "you have the facilities for washing the self, si?"

And Dr. Loveless got another bouncy experience in the backpack as Jim began barking with laughter.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

 _How could so much have gone so wrong so fast?_

Ghattina Dueteña laughed bitterly at herself for asking the question. It had taken not longer than this to blight her and her parents' lives so many years ago. This house her Papa had given her remained standing. _She_ remained standing, perhaps saved by the strange beggar who had knocked her out – a man who might have come to warn her and had told her something of her sister. No one had seen her lying unconscious in this little room, and thus cruel fate had spared her once again. But the rest? Her lover's friends and supporters? Killed or captured. And worst of all – _worst of all_ – her lover, her Hector . . . .

Ghattina put a hand over her eyes at the pain, but she would not allow herself to cry. She had sent faithful Toroloco out to Ceboruco to warn him as soon as she heard the sounds of the riot starting outside. But Toroloco had arrived too late – he had seen her Hector plunge from the cliff and go crashing down into the scrub. He could not find the Tiger's body in the dark. She would do that now in the daylight. The soldiers were leaving. She would find her man and give him the funeral he deserved, one befitting of the mighty hero he had been.

And then she would go and get her revenge . . . .

This was all the fault of that wretched, wicked little man! That . . . that Loveless! Ghattina was certain of it. Loveless he was called, and loveless he was. Why, oh why, had she and Hector ever showed that monster any mercy? Any hospitality? And he had been mean to her Paolina too, according to the beggar. Loveless had known all about her sister – oh yes, he had, just as he had hinted to her day and night since he arrived at her doorstep. She'd dreaded her Hector attempting to kill him, in case the little man's knowledge was real. Now she had learned the worst. Her precious Tiger was dead in his place and the dreadful Miguelito had somehow escaped his fate. Loveless had been seen with the soldiers, someone had told her. He could not cheat death forever though. She would find him.

In her preoccupation, Ghattina was startled by a loud thump against the ground floor window that she had been standing near. One of the few first story windows that remained intact, it had survived this event as well. She looked to see the cause of the noise and there, lying on the ground below the window, was the accursed midget's great, black bird. At that moment she was tempted to go out and stomp the enemy's pet into the dirt it lay on. But then she remembered the clever things that this particular bird could do. She might have a use for the animal herself. She went outside, but not to kill it.

When she came to where the bird remained, hunched up with an injured wing, her heart was moved from hate to pity. She had never seen a more miserable, pathetic creature, squawking weakly, flapping, eyes rheumy. It did not even struggle as she picked it up. Loveless abuses his employees, the beggar had said. She could well believe that.

"Did he mistreat you too?" she asked the wounded bird in her hands. Its only answer was a feeble cheep.

She knew then what she had to do. She was a true Dueteña. She would nurse this unhappy 'bloodhound' back to health. She would use its ability to find its way back to its cruel master. And when she found him she would force that evil little man to tell her everything he knew about her twin. She would find Loveless and then she would find her sister. She'd find them as the crow flies . . . .

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

"Arte, you look exhausted," Jim told his partner. "You get a couple hours of shuteye. I'll take the first shift."

If Artemus Gordon had been able to keep his eyelids open for more than a few seconds, he'd have argued the point. He knew Jim was feeling the fatigue just as much, and was sporting more than a few bruises besides. But no one could top the legendary James West for endurance, and being almost fed to a volcano had taken more out of Artemus than he'd thought.

"Ready?" Arte asked.

"As I'll ever be."

Their small prisoner had been thoroughly searched, stripped all the way down to his underwear (with no suspenders) and locked in the reinforced, triple-locked and booby-trapped cage that Jim and Arte had prepared just for this most special of all guests. They had already decided on some ground rules before they'd ever arrived in Mexico. They would work in shifts, keeping a constant watch on the malevolent genius, who was NOT going to be let out of that cage before their safe return to Los Angeles. A circular perimeter had been drawn around the cage, and neither Secret Service agent was to cross it for any reason. Loveless could make do with the deep (and non-conductive) wooden bowl they had provided in the cage to use for a chamber pot during the journey. Food and water for the doctor (boneless meat only, no utensils) would be shoved by paddle into the perimeter where Loveless would have to reach for it through the bars. The agents would avoid all physical contact with him – not that _he_ had to know that.

Because as the Wanderer headed north on its rapid journey back to the United States, it was time for a very dangerous game to begin. Once aboard, the agents had telegraphed Colonel Richmond and learned that President Grant was still holding out against his case of Patchinson's Ague. Jim hadn't exaggerated how uncooperative Loveless might be with their ultimate goal for this mission. If they were going to get the miracle cure Grant needed out of their mortal enemy without risking the globe to Loveless' ambitions, they were going to have to trick him into cooperation with no warning of what lay in store. Time to play Good Agent, Bad Agent. Richmond, Secretary Bristow, and the Secretary of State had all been instructed in their parts of this drama too. Loveless' own fatigue might make the job a little easier, but they wouldn't be counting on that.

 _Let the games begin_ , Artemus yawned to himself.

Jim might have had less-than-altruistic motives for offering to take the first shift, Arte thought. Jim got to be the Bad Agent, and he had already been enjoying his small tormenting of Dr. Loveless as much as he dared. At this point in their relationship, Jim didn't even have to work to annoy Loveless. He could get under the little wizard's skin just by breathing. He'd do his best to frazzle their foe to a light froth anyway, and Arte supposed he couldn't blame his partner for having some fun while doing it.

Arte just wished he didn't have to put up with it too, wrapping his pillow as much around his head as he could while hearing the off-key strains of Jim plunking out Turkey In The Straw one string at a time on Arte's violin for the prisoner's entertainment . . . .

Jim had gone from mischievous to menacing when Arte, refreshed by a couple of hours of sleep (in spite of Jim's musical talents) reported for his own shift. The worse-tempered agent was moving slowly, gracefully around the exterior of the exclusion circle, silent, crouching down now and again to fix a dangerous stare on Loveless, not unlike a predator stalking its prey. From the look on Loveless' face, he was finding this performance more unnerving than his cousin's own behavior back in the palace's dining chamber. Arte, watching for a moment before stepping forward himself, found it unnerving too. But only Arte saw Jim's killer façade slip to be replaced by bone-tired weariness as the two men switched places. Now it was Arte's turn to keep Loveless company while Jim went off to sleep the sleep of the utterly spent. Arte was bemused by Loveless' attempt to hide his grudging relief at the shift change.

"Your partner Mr. West certainly doesn't appreciate having me on board," Loveless stated the obvious.

"Oh, I can't imagine why not," Arte replied, lowering himself into a chair outside the cage's safety perimeter and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Just because you've tried to kill him . . . how many times now? Seven? Eight?" He began ticking off the efforts on his fingers. "Let's see . . . . There was that time you kidnapped him and planned to replace him with an exact lookalike. You even had his tombstone made up in advance for the occasion, I believe. The time you tried to drive him mad with hallucinatory drugs and then locked him in that mental asylum. Oh! And then when you shrunk him to the size of a doll and tried feeding him to your cat! Now _that_ was special! And as for his duels with a medieval knight and Lightning McCoy . . . ." Arte was doing a pretty good job of getting Loveless steamed with this catalog of his failed attempts, and he wasn't even half trying. "I grant you that shutting him inside a giant clown toy isn't quite the same thing as attempted murder, but it _is_ still the sort of act a fellow can take kind of personal . . . ."

"Is there a point to this, Mr. Gordon?" Loveless growled.

 _Other than humiliating you?_

"The point," Arte sighed, "is that you ought to consider yourself lucky you haven't met the same end a lot of other people he's fought have. Why, do you have any idea how many men he's . . . ." Arte let the sentence trail off on purpose.

"That's he's _what_ , Mr. Gordon? Shot? Do you really think I don't know about his record of service in the War Between the States? Or as an upholder of your so-called laws?"

 _ **You**_ _sure as heck don't know about all of it!_ Arte thought.

"Well, yes . . . ." Arte considered. "It's true a good many of them were shot. You could say that. And I really shouldn't mention the other methods . . . . I wouldn't want you to think that all our enemies wind up, well . . . you know . . . ." Arte shrugged. "But after all, you should realize that. Somehow you've survived being electrocuted, drowned, burned . . . . Although one can't manage to keep up a perfect track record forever." Arte gave Loveless a long, contemplative look, to which he added a mixture of concern with just the slightest soupçon of pity. "Has it ever occurred to you, doctor, that constantly going after Jim and me is just not the best thing for your health? I mean, why not take up some safer hobby like Polynesian cliff diving? Joining the French Foreign Legion? Exploring the South Pole?"

"Ha ha," Loveless said mirthlessly.

"It's something to consider," Arte told him, upping the pity content slightly. "I mean, now that you've started to slip a bit . . . ."

"Slip!"

"Forget I said anything!" Arte held up both his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm sure on one of your better days you wouldn't need Jim to save you from that volcano." Arte smiled a small, sympathetic smile that he knew Loveless would find just as infuriating as anything Jim might have done. He felt like grinning wide, though, as Loveless, outraged but exhausted, turned his back and in spite of his agitation gradually fell asleep. Jim had done Arte a favor, wearing their obnoxious prisoner down to the point that Arte had the quieter shift. And the dagger was in. Now all they had to do was make it through the rest of the trip while quietly, gently swelling the rowboat-sized chip on Loveless' shoulder to the dimensions of a yacht . . . .


	13. You're So Vain

To say it had been an interesting trip would be putting it mildly. It was also successful, in the sense that Loveless didn't manage to escape. It was even successful in being mildly therapeutic, or rather cathartic, for the two agents. One could not say the same for Dr. Loveless. Through a second and third set of shifts, Jim and Arte stuck to their assigned roles, with Jim especially enjoying his. Arte's violin would need a complete restringing, and Jim's singing voice wouldn't be keeping any of the grand tenors of Italy awake nights, but Arte hoped it could help Jim put some old Loveless-related traumas to bed once and for all. Arte meanwhile had played his part with practiced ease and without relaxing his guard around their foe for one minute. Jim was as obnoxious and condescending to Loveless as he could be. His partner, by contrast, was unfailingly polite, solicitous and worst of all, sympathetic. In anyone else, Loveless would have seen sympathy as a naïve weakness to exploit. Coming from 'Mr. Gordon,' it was pure wormwood and gall. They made sure the prisoner got enough sleep, but between their combined efforts, by the end of the journey Loveless was practically developing a nervous facial tic.

Was it enough?

The true test, the most important one of all, was at hand.

As the agents strode into the federal Research and Development building with Loveless once again strapped helplessly to Jim's back, they saw that all had been prepared exactly to their specifications. Hand-picked armed guards, Colonel Richmond, Secretary Bristow and Secretary Fish were waiting attentively. Most important – a lab set up with all of the necessary equipment plus Loveless' notes and cultures from his original sanctum awaited, with an almost identical laboratory a short distance away. Arte didn't normally get performance jitters, but this time the life of a U.S. President – and a friend – depended on the scene about to be staged.

Jim, with calculated rudeness on display, unslung the mini-mega mind from his backpack, removed the cloth sacking, and plopped Loveless down onto the floor to stand in handcuffs before their boss and the two Cabinet Secretaries.

"Jim," Colonel Richmond said, appearing uncomfortable at the rough treatment and the handcuffs, "is all this really necessary?"

"Maybe not," Jim conceded, nodding down to Loveless but not looking directly at him. "He sure isn't what he once was."

Loveless, hearing this, went from glaring at his favorite target to gaping at him in mute, jaw-dropped astonishment.

"Now do you mind telling me just _why_ you needed us to bring him back here?" Jim asked, sounding a bit peeved. Both agents had been carefully pretending that they had no idea what their superiors were up to, quibbling about it to each other on the train in whispers that they had carefully allowed Loveless to overhear.

"Well, uh," Secretary Bristow stammered, "you see, there's been an outbreak of Patchinson's Ague in San Francisco, and it happens that Dr. Loveless here," he said, giving the doctor a nervous but flattering smile, "is the world's foremost authority on Patchinson's Ague." He looked to his fellow Secretary and Richmond, who both nodded agreement. Loveless, accepting this acknowledgment began to puff himself up with the praise already. Jim was primed to burst that bubble.

" _That's_ why you wanted him?" Jim did a bit of gaping himself, then snorted. "You've got to be kidding! Loveless hasn't been the world's foremost authority on anything except failed plans for years! He-"

"Oh, now Jim, I think that's just a bit harsh!" Arte interrupted. "Although I do agree Dr. Loveless may not be quite what he once was . . . ."

Loveless, hearing this, began balling his overlarge hands into fists and shaking them up and down in an agitated fashion while sputtering indignantly.

"Be that as it may," Richmond interrupted the interruption, "we need _someone_ who can come up with a cure, we've gotten his lab ready, and Dr. Loveless really is known to be a-"

"Nuisance," Jim completed the sentence. "Colonel, Arte and _I_ could probably come up with an antidote to that disease faster than this has-been!"

"Has-been!" Loveless screeched.

"Jim!" Colonel Richmond started to scold.

"Now, now," Arte said, holding up both hands in a placating manner and smiling down at the outraged scientist. "For something like a disease outbreak, I suppose anything is worth a try." He let the smile fade, and scratched the back of his head, looking around the hallway speculatively. "It might not be a bad idea to let the two of us," he pointed to Jim and himself, "have a go at it too. Every port in a storm and all that. I like to think I have a pretty good hand in at science, and Jim's not too bad at it himself. That way if Dr. Loveless isn't capable of getting the job done, we ca-"

"Not capable!" Loveless gasped in outrage.

Now the two Secretaries began looking at each other and fidgeting uncomfortably. They didn't need to be professional actors, Arte realized. It was a dangerous business pushing their 'only hope' to the brink of fury, talking as though he could be replaced. It was a chance they had to take though, and if Arte was any judge, Loveless was swallowing the bait hook, line and sinker. The dangerous trip to Mexico and the difficult turns on board the Wanderer might be about to bear fruit.

"Gentlemen!" Colonel Richmond tried to get a word in edgewise. "Arguing is not going to do anything to resolve the situation in San Francisco!" He gave his harshest frown of disapproval to his two Secret Service agents. "It happens that we believe the doctor here has the best possible chance of finding a cure in time to save some of the victims!"

"That's true," Loveless nodded, already starting to puff and preen again. "I consider myself to be the world's greatest expert on this subject. I've been making a study of the disease for several years. Why, your doctors and quacks here won't have even a tenth of the knowledge about Patchinson's Ague that I do!"

Jim rolled his eyes, a gesture not lost on Loveless – or Richmond. Arte tensed while trying not to show it, but the Colonel played his part so well in the next minute that Arte could have hurrahed inside.

"That's enough!" Richmond rebuked Jim.

Loveless positively beamed with glee at the anticipation of his hated foe getting reamed out by his own boss right where Loveless could watch. But it was Richmond, looking stern, who managed to slip the hook in.

"Given what the two of you have no doubt been through, I'm prepared to overlook your current lack of manners," he scolded Jim. "And as it happens, we _have_ had our doctors working on the problem. But this job is for Dr. Loveless, not for you!" Richmond threw in a finger-waggling at his rude agent that left Loveless practically glowing.

Jim snorted and rolled his eyes again. Loveless couldn't resist the urge to gloat at a time like this.

"Really, Mr. West," Loveless tut-tutted. "Do you honestly think you have any understanding of science or medicine at all? Hardly your field."

"He's right, Jim," Arte conceded. "Even if you have been studying in that direction lately . . . ."

Jim hadn't, of course, but Loveless didn't need to know that either. The very possibility caught Loveless off guard enough to leave him gaping in astonishment again.

"Oh, yes," Arte told Loveless. "You mean you, uh, you didn't know?" he asked their foe with an innocent smile before shaking his head in puzzlement. "I realize you've been out of circulation for a while, but . . . ."

"I have not been 'out of circulation' as you put it. Certainly not!" The little wizard was the picture of indignation, attempting to cross his arms as well as the handcuffs allowed. "And as for Mr. West thinking he's capable of becoming a fraction of the scientific genius I am, I find the very idea preposterous!"

"Well Jim, you heard it." Arte glanced over at his partner, then at Colonel Richmond. "They're convinced that it's all up to Loveless! Still," he gave Richmond a speculative raise of his eyebrows, "in the case of an emergency like this, we can let Loveless give it a try – and I'll say again it wouldn't be a bad idea for us to make an effort as well. In a separate lab, of course! I definitely don't want these two mixing it up!" He indicated his partner and Loveless to Richmond with a hand gesture. "If you've, ah, got another lab we can use, that is?"

The Colonel nodded.

"We do. There's one right down the hall," he said. "And I agree that the suggestion might have some merit . . . ."

 _Now or never time_ , Arte knew. _This is it!_

Just as he had anticipated, Loveless became the one rolling his eyes and scoffing.

"Oh, please!" Dr. Loveless snorted. "As if Mr. West and Mr. Gordon will ever have a chance of matching my intellectual accomplishments! No one can best my medical genius! I'll come up with a cure for the Ague while these two are still figuring out how to use a microscope!"

"Is that so?" Jim growled, crouching down to stare Loveless directly eye-to-eye one more time. "You think you can come up with a cure for Patchinson's Ague before Arte and I do?"

"Most certainly!"

The two enemies glared at one another.

"Prove it," Jim said.

"Very well!" Loveless, with an angry harrumph, turned his back on the agent, held out his cuffed hands for the guards to unlock the constraint, and drew himself up as far as he could in front of Richmond and the two Cabinet Secretaries. "Gentlemen, I believe you said my lab awaits!"

 _YES!_ Arte shouted to himself.

"And Jim, I think that's our cue to get to work too . . . ."

So keen was Dr. Loveless to start on trouncing his opponents in this competition, he marched straight into the laboratory designated with his back still turned on the agents and never saw the small wink exchanged between Artemus Gordon and his boss.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

"Here come the miracle workers," a jovial voice laughed, followed by a couple of coughs.

President Ulysses S. Grant was sitting up in bed, terribly pale except for the fading pox-y spots that still dotted his skin. Colonel Richmond stood at the President's bedside, but turned to smile at the two Secret Service agents walking into the hospital room as Grant nodded to them.

"Well, thank you Mr. President," Artemus grinned. "But I'm afraid Dr. Miguelito Loveless has to be given credit as the real miracle worker in this case."

"Bah – him too," Grant huffed dismissively. "And if those are what I think they are," the President pointed to the envelopes Jim and Arte were pulling out of their jacket pockets, "you can damn well burn 'em! I'm not accepting your resignations and that's final! Told Richmond, Ben and Ham the same thing when they offered theirs!"

Neither agent looked too disappointed by Grant's decision.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Jim said, smiling now as well.

"Ha! Damn-fool notions! And from the lot of you! Would've thought you all had more sense."

"Well, we did act without your permission, Sir," Artemus reminded him. "And on foreign soil at that."

Grant waved that concern away.

"You two are lucky I don't sentence you both to a commendation!" The President appeared remorseful. "Can't do so officially in this case. Wish I could."

"Oh, I'm sure I can come up with some way to compensate them," Colonel Richmond promised. "Excellent work, gentlemen! I've just been filling the President in on your exploits down there and I'll agree with what he called you – miracle workers. I'm sure the other patients being saved by Dr. Loveless' serum and their families are grateful as well, even if they don't know who to thank."

"Er, speaking of Dr. Loveless . . . ." Arte murmured.

Jim, as usual, chose to be blunt and direct.

"You didn't pardon him, did you, Mr. President? Or have him let go?"

"As if I would!" Grant scowled. "Another damn-fool notion, even if he did help save my life. No. Choice wasn't left up to me though," he grumped, looking over at Richmond.

"No," Richmond said, grinning and shaking his head a bit. "I'm afraid we gave him the reward he demanded."

Jim and Arte both stared at the Colonel in horror.

"Oh, it isn't anything like what you're thinking," Richmond told them. "All your comments about what a washed-up has-been he is must have stung more than you realized. Now he feels he has a point to prove. The little menace virtually demanded that we lock him up in the most secure, tough, escape-proof prison we possibly can. So we're giving him what he wants."

"Oh my, James," Arte chuckled. "I do believe we may have hurt the doctor's feelings!"

"I'm crushed," Jim deadpanned. "You realize, Colonel, Loveless will do everything in his power to find a way to escape?"

"And we'll do everything in ours to prevent it," Richmond answered. "Luckily we've got the best agents in the world working for us. I know I can always count on them." He nodded to Jim and Arte. "And you don't have to worry about any complications with Mexico. We've been in communication with the Mexican Ambassador – quietly – and the President of Mexico has no complaints. Not with you two or your friends down there, anyway."

"Hmmphh!" Grant grunted. "Man ought to be giving them all a medal for getting rid of that cat fellow, what's-his-name."

"Hector el Tigre," Jim said. "I just hope we _have_ gotten rid of him and he doesn't have his cousin's ability to cheat death."

"Let's hope not," Arte added. "But I'll see if I can't come up with some suggestions to make Dr. Loveless' next escapade a bit harder. One member of that family to deal with is enough!"

"I'll help," Jim offered. "I'm a budding scientific genius, remember?"

They all started laughing at that, but had to make their goodbyes as the President's doctor and Julia Grant came in and ordered the visitors out so that the President could get some more rest. Even the Commander-in-Chief of the United States knew where he took _his_ orders from.

"Well, gentlemen," Richmond asked the agents as they made their way back to the street, "how about a steak and lobster dinner at the Palace Hotel? My treat. I'll throw in the champagne too."

"You're buying? Thank heavens for that," Jim laughed. "I still haven't gotten Arte to repay me the five bucks he owes me."

Richmond nodded and patted him on the back.

"Well, Jim, as your commanding officer, I can only expect just so many miracles out of you at once."

"James, my boy," Arte laughed, "considering what you did for me down there, I think this is one miracle I can help you with!"

And in mirthful high spirits, the three went off to have their dinner.


End file.
